


The Book of Keter

by imperialfool



Series: Ineffable Archives [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale whump, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Transformations, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I made sure to put in fluffy and cute stuff to sandwich the really gritty ones, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialfool/pseuds/imperialfool
Summary: For millennia, the angels were taught one thing: that at the end of the world, they will meet the forces of evil in battle and fight for the glory of Heaven. The angelic host will descend upon the Earth and wipe out the hordes of Hell. Araquiel can still remember the moment Gabriel went up to heaven to face a sea of armoured soldiers brimming with violent energy to announce that the Armageddon has been “postponed until further notice.”That won’t do at all.—————————Note: Still on-going! Just needed to take a mental break. But worldbuilding has restarted! 😊
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Archives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737988
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35





	1. Old habits and all that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I don't post much and I don't write much. But there's a germ of a plotline my lizard brain has been obsessing with so I decided to just drill it out my head. This hasn't been beta'd and it's pretty obvious in how it's written. If you're interested, do let me know and I'd be more than happy to connect (and I'll owe you my sister's first child).
> 
> I'll be adding tags and the necessary warnings as I go along. For now, it's pretty much still in the introductory realm. After getting to a couple of chapters ahead in the story, I might be able to guarantee a posting schedule.
> 
> I'm also still figuring out the HTML formatting, so for flashback-like scenes, I'm going to have to use blockquote until I figure out CSS or the basic HTML I can use for putting margins =))
> 
> Other than that, hope you enjoy!

There is wisdom in the meditations humans do. It doesn’t rely on some supernatural power - although some humans have exhibited some esoteric gift, just a very tiny drop from the fountain of celestial power - instead, it grounds you to the Earth. The humility that comes with asking the ancient roots of this world and the divine words that have planted them to allow you to heal and protect is a concept some of the ethereal and the infernal can’t quite grasp.

And so Aziraphale, deep in meditation, sat with his hands in prayer, close to his chest where he can feel the comforting beats of his heart. Then raised them to his forehead to invoke divine guidance, and proceeded to put his hands on his lap with his palms up. He focused on the energy he’s drawing from the Earth, mixing it with his own angelic power, and guiding it outwards. Out from himself and to the cottage. To the garden outside. To the twisting paths and trails. To the white chalk hills of South Downs. 

_I ask that you allow me to heal and protect this house and its occupants. The flora and fauna that thrive in the land. The villages and its people. Let no harm come this way._

Then he reached out to the wards that surrounded their home. He raised two fingers and on the air started drawing symbols while chanting prayers under his breath in his own divine language. The muted vibrations he could feel told him that the wards have been charged up. 

When he’s satisfied, he called tendrils of energy back to him, leaving just enough to alert him. Of unwanted guests. Of danger. And he returned to himself and to the present, in the living room of their quaint cottage in the countryside. 

***********************************************

“You don’t have to keep doing that you know,” said the serpent of Eden entering with hands full of pastry boxes and a tray of drinks, “It’s been more than a year, I highly doubt they’ll come for us during breakfast.” 

Aziraphale stood to help Crowley with the boxes, deciding to have their breakfast in the living room rather than in their small dining area. Crowley took his seat on the couch beside the angel, and in comfortable silence, started opening the boxes and taking out steaming cups of cocoa and coffee on their low table. “I felt you on my drive home.”

 _Home_. A four letter word. A small word that holds so much meaning to him now. Crowley initially thought that the mundanity of retirement would be unwelcome, but he adjusted to normalcy easily, or as normal a life as two supernatural beings can live. Of course, while much of their days were spent doing all the things they love without fear of being found out, old habits would rear its head every now and then. 

So they agreed to keep performing miracles and small mischievous deeds but without the tedious task of writing up reports, reaching quotas, and meeting up with their superiors. None of that anymore.

“If I remember correctly, it was you who said that they might try again,” the angel replied. “I just don’t want to be surprised this time.”

“I also said they’ll leave us alone for now. And besides, it took them millennia to prepare for the Armageddon we just stopped. Allow yourself to enjoy this, angel.”

Aziraphale looked a little abashed. He liked being able to perform miracles without worrying about the arbitrary caps. _As if lending a hand should have a limit_ , the angel once said. He pulls out one of the fruit and cream cheese danishes and took a bite, “Oh, I know. And I rather think I’m enjoying retirement. If you must know, I willingly sold a book yesterday and the only reason I can think of is because I’m not stressed out about anything anymore.”

Crowley grinned into his coffee, shaking his head with amusement. He removed his glasses and sat back to look at the profile of his angel, watching him close his eyes as he savoured each bite. “Think of this as vacation, angel. It wouldn’t do to spoil it by worrying too much.” 

He knew this isn’t Aziraphale being paranoid or scared. This was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate making sure he’s prepared this time around, and he wouldn’t fault the angel for feeling like it’s his duty. He just hoped that this time the angel included him in his plans, if only to protect Aziraphale from doing anything stupid like get in harm’s way.

The memory of a burning bookshop was still etched in his mind’s eye. Now that they’re on their own side, he wouldn’t put it past Heaven or Hell to try getting to them again. 

_For my money, the really big one will be all of us against all of them_ , he remembers saying. Crowley still believes this, and he, too, would like nothing more than to start making plans for it. 

But it was a nice day.

All the days had been nice.

***********************************************

One of the many perks of being unemployed was obviously being able to do what you want. Despite his fears of retribution from both Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale likes being able to read a book with a hot cuppa, while settled at a nook by the window where he can see Crowley tending to their garden.

When the tranquility of South Downs became unbearable though, they would seek out the noise of the city. Crowley would go back to his flat in Mayfair first before fomenting evil, and Aziraphale would be back in his bookshop shooing people to prevent them from purchasing first editions. 

After chasing everyone out, he closed the shop and retreated to the backroom. With steaming cocoa within reach and his gold-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose, he started flipping open the book he had been reading. 

It’s been a while since he sensed a presence, both angelic and demonic, around them. The very last time was after their body swap ruse, which had been a shock. He never noticed that buzzing sound in the background until after they were left alone by Heaven and Hell. Then it was just quiet. 

_You know he’s right, you need to relax_ , his mind chided. When you’ve been looking over your shoulder for thousands of years and then rebelled against your own, one can’t help but expect for the worse to happen. Once the consequences of their behaviour caught up to them, being on the defensive now will give them time to respond on the offensive later. 

“I’m trying, Crowley, I really am.”

The angel was just glad one of them wasn’t as wound up. These past months, he’s become more reflective and thought that Crowley went through a lot more than he did during the events leading up to the supposed Armageddon. But more than the fretting, he’s been thinking about what this freedom now means and how it fits in Her plans.

> _“What I think is, obviously there has to be two sides_ ,” he remembers telling the Archangels. _“That’s the whole point. So people can make choices. That’s what being human means. Choices! But that’s for_ them _.Our job, as angels, should be to keep all this working, so_ they _can_ make _choices.”_

Contrary to what others believe, angels _can_ make independent decisions, too. It's just that these are strongly anchored to the purpose for which they are created. The Archangels, for instance, were created to ensure that there will be no interference to God’s plans for man. How they responded to these interferences, the actions they _chose_ to make to fulfill their purpose, even in how they found meaning in an unknowable divine plan, were decisions they can make all on their own. 

It had been more than a year since the averted Apocalypse, and it took about the same amount of time for Aziraphale to truly embrace not being part of the ‘workforce’. For an angel whose sole purpose was to protect, that only meant deciding to shift his focus. 

Aziraphale was of the belief that God had intended for the Apocalypse to be prevented. As to why that is, he’s unable to figure it out yet. _The nature of ineffability_. He had theories, of course, but Aziraphale found that the best way to deal with an Ineffable Plan was to stick to what he does best - to be a guardian.

He was wrong on one account, though. It wasn’t just angels - demons were meant to help them create a balance, paths need to be made, each winding towards what was considered good and evil. 

That puts to mind what Crowley’s role was in the Ineffable Plan. He believed that he really wasn’t supposed to stop Crowley from slithering up the Tree of Knowledge to tempt the first humans. Adam and Eve already knew not to eat from it, instead Crowley had presented them with another path. In other words, it wasn’t after eating the apple but before it that man was given the first chance to enact their free will.

However, it implies that God _had_ intended for man to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Some people thought that the Tree was meant to represent Her absolute knowledge of what’s good and evil for Her creation, and the act of eating from it meant denying God’s sovereign right over them by determining for themselves what _should_ be good and evil for them. 

> _“Not very subtle of the Almighty, though_. _Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a_ ‘don’t touch’ _sign, I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain or on the moon?”_ Crowley argued, _''Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”_

Makes you wonder, indeed. Having experienced the mysterious ways their Mother works, Aziraphale now thinks God wanted Adam and Eve to obtain this knowledge, but it had to be their choice. 

All this conjecture doesn’t explain why the world didn’t come to an end now, though. _Or maybe it did, but it’s a different kind of ending?_ He supposed that in this regard celestial beings and humans must fall in the same trap of taking literal what should be metaphorical, and vice versa.

As the angel locked up the shop and awaited the arrival of his demon friend, he touched his signet ring and looked up. He thought it amusing that while God is ever present, we all still look to the sky to talk to Her. But he does it. 

Aziraphale momentarily closed his eyes in prayer.

_Mother, I ask that you open my mind so I can understand. All this groping in the dark is making me terribly anxious._

***********************************************

Crowley has perfected the art of minimal effort for maximum results for his demonic activities. If you really want to force out man’s darker, more unpalatable side, the key is in inconveniencing them. 

All the other demons focused on going big when they’re working. Tempting politicians to be corrupt, priests abandoning their vocation, any action that leads to death and destruction, and so on. It’s too on the nose, too common and unimaginative.

None of his lot has yet to appreciate the beauty of getting CEOs to use buzzwords like “disruption” and “synergy,” putting bean bags in offices to make up for the lack of employee benefits, or a boss whose sole concern is that you’re drinking coffee rather than chai. The pent up frustration that results from that, the bitterness that lasts for years, and indeed the fact that it’s happening to millions of people all over the world is what it’s all about for Crowley. 

So, sitting in a cafe, he miracled a small bump on the pavement, jutting just a few inches from the cement, and watched as people tripped over the smallest nuisance, knowing that the annoyance is going to domino throughout their day. 

At half past 4:00 pm, Crowley ordered a slice of blueberry cheesecake and decided it’s time to drive back to the bookshop to give the angel his treat. They had plans to get sushi for dinner, but knowing Aziraphale, he’s always peckish after a full day in the bookshop so a pre-dinner bite was in order. 

Before he even got the chance to unlock the door to his car, he suddenly heared a high frequency static, much like how you’d imagine a banshee would scream. It only lasts for a few seconds, then it stopped. He quickly got in the Bentley and started racing towards Soho, not minding the pedestrians flipping him off at every junction.

Throughout millenia, Crowley developed a sort of Aziraphale-sense. The angel has very little sense of self preservation, he’s always in danger of discorporation whether he’s on the job or when he’s looking for something to nibble in another continent. The only way to make sure that he’s not being stupid again was for Crowley to be hyperaware of the angel’s presence.

Now, it’s just gone. Like a part of his brain had been cut out.

Flashes of a burning bookshop resurfaced, the sound of shelves crashing down the floor, and the unfortunate familiar sensation of emptiness within overwhelmed him as he parked haphazardly in front of the bookshop and rushed towards the door. 

Inside, he saw no fire. No books or loose pages strewn on the floor. 

The bookshop, like his Bentley, evolved to have a sentience to a very limited degree just from being treated as a separate being by its owners. The walls would thrum with its believed existence and would usually mimic the mood the angel was in for that day. At the moment, it’s suspiciously quiet, even if Aziraphale stepped out today, the bookshop would have still been on its guard to keep the treasures within it safe. _Just like its owner, always the minder._

Crowley slowly walked at the centre of the shop, straining his ear for any kind of movement. “Angel, are you here?,” he shouted. He walked further and called to him again, “Aziraphale!,” and still no answer.

He couldn't see anything out of the ordinary in the shop, which alarmed him even more. The demon cleared his mind and focused his power as he reached out again, hoping to feel just a tiny bit of angelic presence he can track. 

_There!_ A faint other-worldy tingling and warmth that’s uniquely Aziraphale. He didn't so much run as tripped over his legs in high-speed towards the backroom where he felt what’s left of the angelic energy already dying down. 

What he saw nearly made him slip. Here, it looks like the chaos was concentrated in this one section of the shop. The desk where the angel did his book restorations was broken in half, the couch where they spent most of their nights enjoying a good bottle of wine had been toppled over and its cushions destroyed, and worst of all were the gilded and scarlet streaks of blood everywhere.

Approaching the desk slowly, Crowley hovered a hand over a spot of gold and red on its surface, while his mind was making quick work of imagining in unfortunately vivid detail the scenes that transpired here. There were obvious signs of struggle, but more unnerving was the already barely perceptible presence of both angelic and demonic powers. _You didn’t go down without a fight, it seems, angel._

“Heaven and hell are cooperating,” he said aloud. If the state of the room was any indication, he’s assuming they’re tying loose ends before the Big War starts, which meant they’re going to come for him too, and soon. 

From the corner of his eye he saw Aziraphale’s favourite coat lying on the floor. Crowley knelt down and carefully picked it up. He saw various tears and more of the gold-red splotches on it. _I left him to fight them alone._

When he thought Aziraphale had died, he was shouting curses at whoever was listening. God, Satan, the bloody firemen outside - it was really hard to discriminate when your best friend’s been killed. Now, he’s in the exact same position, only it seemed he couldn't bring himself to make any kind of reaction. Crowley clutched the coat close to his chest. With no focus for his anger, he screamed into the empty bookshop. _You shouldn’t have been too relaxed. You knew they were going to come for you eventually. You left him again_.

Just as he had decided to drink himself to oblivion waiting for Armageddon to happen, he’s now determined to wait for the hordes of hell and the choirs of heaven to get to him. “It’s not gonna matter at this point,” he muttered to himself, “The angel can’t expect me to defend humanity on my own.” 

Resigned to his fate, Crowley sprawled on the floor and allowed the dark of the room consumed him. But right at the cusp of sleep, before his heavy lidded eyes led him to a dreamless sleep, he saw it.

Easily missable especially by a grieving demon recumbent in the gloom, there’s a glinting on the shelf in between the books. “Oh angel, you clever bastard,” he miracled the item in his hand and inspects it closely. 

Aziraphale’s signet ring was more than just an accessory, it has the ethereal marker of his rank. It’s easy to forget that he was a soldier of heaven because he’s soft and frumpy, but he had most likely commanded a platoon during the Celestial War. If he had any hope of tracking where the angel was, assuming now that he’s still alive, this would be it. But he’ll need help.

He will have to visit the witch in Tadfield.

Immediately, he snapped to clean and fix the room, save for the angelic and demonic blood tracks to decide what to do with later. 

For now, he needed to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read my Internet noise! Do let me know what you think! I'm treating this as an exercise since my brain cells have been redefining Sloth as a Cardinal sin - I'm sure your insight will reduce its time in purgatory.
> 
> Thank you again!


	2. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of torture in the third beat — nothing graphic.

_The first rays of the morning sun creeps into the bedroom to touch my face with its heat._

_I do not want to move, I do not want to open my eyes. I just want to stay in bed, under the cold embrace of the blankets._

_Headache._

_My head is throbbing in pain. If I can draw the curtains close, I might get a few more minutes in the dark._

_But I do not want to move, I do not want to open my eyes. I just want to stay in bed and hide from the insulting brightness of the light._

_Thirsty._

_My lips are chapped and my throat is dry. If I can just reach the glass of water on the nightstand._

_But I do not want to move, I do not want to open my eyes. I just want to stay in bed and let the light filling the room devour me._

_Hungry._

_My stomach growls. If I can eat an egg or two maybe I’ll feel much better._

_But I cannot move, and I cannot open my eyes. I can’t get up from the bed with the heat of the sun burning me, burning me, burning me._

_Everything hurts._

***********************************************

When Anathema decided to burn the second book of Agnes’ prophecies, she had inexplicably chosen to stay put in London. Newt had asked, when she hesitated throwing the pages into the fire, if she wanted to be a descendant all her life. And she found that her answer was an easy ‘no’, she’d want to start living as herself with people who were willing to get to know her beyond her occult associations. 

Anathema liked to think that this gave her a chance to experience the mysterious ways of the universe and accept whatever role life decided to give her, and not what a distant ancestor has assumed for her. Most of her days now were filled with surprised and found that she’s actually quite fond of those and would like more.

Today, it seemed the universe decided it wanted her to spend time with Newt and her mother in a weekend market at her local church. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s intentionally attended anything related to a church, or markets, or weekends for that matter. 

There’s a huge, white canopy tent filled with endless rows of stalls selling all manner of knick knacks, while at the back a small chapel stands with its doors open. Anathema found herself wading through an influx of people as they went through the kiosks appraising each item. Even at midday there were thick clouds covering the sky, but there’s no threat of rain. Instead a constant breeze and the overcast light created a very welcome gloom.

“So Anathema, how are you finding your time here?” alone with Newt’s mother, she watched as the old woman inspected each jar of jam like a jeweler looking for a prized gem, while the man himself was off dawdling somewhere.

“Oh, you know, still adjusting. But it’s starting to feel more like home everyday,” she replied honestly. Anathema would be lying if she said she didn’t miss life on the other side of the pond - you can’t always let go of places that have significantly shaped your life. But she’s working with a different slab of clay now, and while it’s a day-to-day grind of spinning and forming it, she can’t wait for it to finally take the shape of contentment.

Newt’s mother turned to her with an affectionate expression, “I’m sure my son wants nothing more than for you to be happy, whether it’s here or back in the States. But just the same, I’m glad to hear you feel that way.”

Anathema smiled and mentally added random mushy moments in her growing list of new experiences.

They saw Newt excitedly walking back to them holding up a small amber bottle, “Anathema! They have essential oils over there, you were looking for some last week, right?” She let him drag her over to the stall and proceeded to suggest various oil mixes to the seller’s annoyance. 

Their day continued that way, going from one booth to another and occasionally arguing over questionable purchases. 

“It’s a small taxidermy mouse wearing reading glasses and holding a book. I want it,” Anathema made her case. 

Newt imagined finding it in random places in the house as if it’s following him, and him alone, “But why? I mean, look at its black pin-eyes, it’s staring into my soul.”

“Oh just let her have it, dear,” his mother chimed in, “It’s not as if it’s going to be any trouble for you. It’s already dead.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want it, mum,” he mumbled, but proceeded to buy it anyway.

Dead rat on hand, they finally decided to find a table in the food area of the tent. Lured by the smell of different spices wafting through the air, they took turns looking after their items and buying food. One of the stalls that caught Anathema’s interest was selling deep-fried cheesecake among the usual English bites and healthy eats. 

“That’s an interesting addition to the menu,” she politely remarked. 

The sellers were an extreme contrast of appearance, for sure. One was a very bored man manning their drinks station, and the other was an eager-looking woman working the grill. It calls to mind the same image of two celestial beings from a time she’d rather forget. “Well, we can’t figure out what food people like to eat so we decided to just serve all types. Would you like one?” the latter offered.

“Yes, please. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything too sweet for my life that’s also deep-fried. I’ll have your lemonade, too.”

“Ah, perfect! Coming right up!” She dumped two cheesecake balls into the fryer and prompted her partner to work on the drinks. He picked up a white paper cup to fill it with ice, but suddenly hesitated. Then he reached for the red paper cup, and after a moment puts it down too. The woman noticed this and quietly scolded the other, before she finally picked a cup for him. 

After that strange display, Anathema came away with her deep-fried dessert and a white cup filled with ice and honey-sweetened lemonade. 

_Best not to overthink that,_ she determined as she settled down to enjoy her food.

***********************************************

Aziraphale didn't wake up in a dank and dark cell, but in a deceivingly snug and homely room. It’s empty, but for a single bed pushed against the wall near the window where sunlight filters in. From the little that he can see of the view, there’s not much there but miles of fields. “In the middle of nowhere, then,” he wondered aloud.

All this was the charming backdrop for the morbidity of what’s in the middle of the room. Beaten and bloodied, the only thing keeping him upright were the chains locked around his wrists, arms spread wide above his head while his feet are barely touching the floor. 

Instead of his stiff tartan collar and waistcoat, he’s in a cilice - a coarse cloth that was rubbing his skin red at the smallest movement. Beside him, unsurprisingly, was a table of various implements, which he thinks he’ll get to be acquainted with soon enough. 

_This is highly inconvenient_ , Aziraphale thinks. 

But it’s quiet and it’s bright, and there are even a couple of birds fluttering about outside. If he wasn't restrained by thaumaturgic chains and if the vexing migraine wasn’t drilling holes in his head at the moment, the day had the potential to be quite lovely.

He let his mind wander to the events that lead to his capture. 

What Aziraphale found most troubling wasn’t being attacked, but that he didn’t _feel_ the danger approach. Piecing together what had happened, he remembered walking furiously at the door to see who was making a ruckus. 

> _“Please, the shop is quite close. I’d appreciate it if you can stop the incessant knocking!”_
> 
> _“S-sssirrrr,"_ there were five of them, a ragged group of young adults in their late teens huddled nervously in front of him, and the meek reply came from the smallest of the lot. 
> 
> _“Oh,”_ his voice softened as he took in their sickly state. _“I do apologise for shouting. How may I help you?”_
> 
> _“Hu-huuungryyyyyy,”_ like a faded sound from a record that’s about to end. 

He can’t be expected to leave them like that, so he ushered them in and towards the backroom where there was already a plate full of biscuits on his table. 

> _“Go on then, don’t be shy. There’s plenty of food to share! Let me make you tea to go with it.”_ Before he could leave them, a deep, throaty growl which came from them made him stop. _“I’m sorry?”_ he asked.
> 
> _“N-n-nnnooooo,”_ grave voices replied in unison. One by one, they turn their heads toward him, looking with too blank stares.
> 
> Suddenly, they circled him. 

On a normal day the coordination would’ve impressed Aziraphale. He hadn’t seen too many teenagers who can organise themselves let alone move with choreographed precision.

> _“I daresay, this behaviour is making me uncomfortable. Do back away, please.”_
> 
> _“Nnnnnnnoooo!”_ they yelled with so much force he staggered back a step.
> 
> _“Please, I don’t want t--.”_

“You’re awake,” a voice broke through his concentration. Aziraphale looked up to see her coming through the door. 

_That’s curious_. 

This angel was wearing the garb meant for Powers - a long, cream-coloured uniform coat over a tan double-breasted frock emblazoned with a sword in between heraldic wings. Her hair was shorn almost to the scalp on her right side and with an intricate swirl side-shave design, while what remained of her long, flowing black curls fell elegantly over her shoulders. She’s beautiful and radiating with Her grace, but like most of Heaven’s warrior angels, there’s a sharpness to her that will tear and cut if you make a wrong move. _She means to intimidate me_ , he observes.

“Principality Aziraphale, it’s good to finally meet you,” she said rather eagerly, “You don’t know how excited I am. I have been working hard to get this chance. You’ve been very thorough with your precautions.” 

_Oh lord, she talks like Gabriel._

“I can’t say the same for myself, Araquiel.” Another one came ambling into the room.

_Ah, that’s even more intriguing_. 

Other than Crowley, he’s never seen a demon who presents themselves in such a modish manner. But this one had thick brushed-back brown hair and a neatly trimmed full-face beard. Unlike angels, demons don’t usually wear the regalia of their office, so this demon chose to wear black chinos, a dark red long-sleeve shirt that made his emerald eyes even more piercing. _Oh, Crowley wouldn’t like this one._

Quite an odd pair, these two. He supposed, the same could be said of Crowley and him, too. 

With a flick of the demon’s hand the chains tightened and burned. Aziraphale gets lifted up off the ground even more, the stretch most likely opening scabbed over wounds on his body. He gritted his teeth in pain until it washed over him completely and can’t help the small whimper that came out. Another movement from the demon and he’s limp and hanging again.

The angel Araquiel clapped her hands together and actually giggled, honey-coloured eyes glinting with misplaced mirth, “Now, Algaz, we mustn’t be hasty. And you promised that I’ll oversee our prince’s penance.”

The demon shrugged and walked to recline on the bed, “Do you honestly think he’s sorry about what he did? We literally have him bound with enchanted chains for your “penance” thing.”

_Penance thing?_

“Hmm, even so. The point isn’t if he regrets disobeying Her plan, but that he’s been found guilty of it. It’d be a waste to kill him before his reparation starts,” she reprimanded. 

With the little strength he has, Aziraphale lifted his head to meet the angel’s gaze, “Am I to be tortured, then?”

Araquiel walked closer to him and cupped his cheek. She ran her thumb on his skin to caress the worry lines out of his face, but the softness was more disturbing than pleasant, even one coming from an angel. “I wonder,” she said, “What were you before Heaven was re-organised?”

Aziraphale only turned his head away from her touch. Distraught enough with the situation, he didn’t need to be insulted by comforting touches. Amused, Araquiel grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her, “You may choose to think of this as torture, yes. But my hope is that you see it for what it is: a chance for absolution.”

“Absolution? If you think my guilt is irrelevant in this exercise, then what do you think you’re releasing me from, angel?” There’s only so much intimidation you can do chained up and with your powers being drained by the second, but he’s not going to let that stop him from expressing how cross he was. 

She brushed the hair plastered on Aziraphale’s sweating forehead with disturbing affability, “Arrogance.”

Algaz stood approaching the table and examined which instruments to use, “Will a cane work to start?” Araquiel let go of him and made a gesture so that Aziraphale was shirtless in front of them, and his chains made taut and tight to spread his arms wider, “Yes, and the floggers.”

“Are you going to watch?” the demon rolled up his sleeves as his eyes roamed Aziraphale’s bare pallid skin.

“Of course, just let me make tea. But you may start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Still polishing quite a few things for the world building then fitting it into the plot, but I think I'll be able to set a schedule soon...?
> 
> Comments are very much welcome - this exercise is already teaching me a lot of things. But your input is going to be very helpful.
> 
> Again, thank you very much for spending time on this!


	3. You learn something new everyday.

There’s so much information one can find about the relationship between witches and demons. Pop culture shows the former offering sacrifices and performing rituals in worship of a demon to obtain knowledge, powers, among other things. There are those who take a more academic approach, touching on the cultural history, the scientific and religious in magic, and evolution in occult practices.

Still, most couldn’t have predicted this latest development - a demon driving recklessly through the M25 to seek help from a witch. 

Crowley tried finding Aziraphale on his own the day after his visit to the bookshop, but focusing on the faint energy from the signet ring was proving quite difficult, and he feared it might run out with each use. To preserve it, he kept the ring in a box to reduce the chances of it picking up new energies, and as an added safeguard, he created a barrier around himself so he doesn’t further contaminate it with his own.

Time and again humans have shown a proclivity for certain things, some of which he had taken credit for in the past. Their determination to learn and do something paired with creative imagination evolved into abilities and talents that they used with grace and with so much compassion for others. And yet, it’s these same traits that made some of their inclinations lean more on the inimical side, a profound wickedness that even demons found surprising. 

These abilities were what Crowley was hoping the witch would tap into, preferring the former but wouldn’t be too averse to the latter, just as long as it gets him to Aziraphale.

The Bentley navigated itself through Tadfield, remembering the roads that led to the witch’s cottage while its owner was distracted. At the moment, the demon in question was running through his spiel, “I probably need to introduce myself.”

In the friendliest tone Crowley can pull off, he practiced,“‘Hey, witch! I’m that demon you met when the world was about to end. Remember me?’”

“No, don’t sound like a prat, idiot,” he grumbled.

“‘Surrender yourself to a higher power and aid me in my quest!’” he attempted in his most menacing voice, “For crying out loud, why can’t you be normal!” 

While Crowley was the more contemporary of the two, he doesn’t necessarily mingle with the humans. He may have grown fond of the humans, enough to risk eternal punishment, but he doesn’t exactly _like_ being social. That’s Aziraphale’s deal, and it helped that the angel is literally the blushing smiley emoji personified - it’s easy for him and he genuinely enjoys it. 

In fact, although their Arrangement started with covering each other’s assignments, the clauses evolved to include Crowley saving Aziraphale from discorporation (which can wholly be blamed for the angel’s frustrating lack of self preservation), and Aziraphale saving him from being trapped in human social convention (which he pointed out to be unnecessary because he’s a demon with things to do and places to be, to the angel’s irritation).

“This is hopeless.”

Crowley spotted what he thought was the right cottage with its somewhat familiar hedges he’s seeing in broad daylight for the first time. He parks the Bentley right in front of the gate, completely blocking the way. _Never miss an opportunity for mischief, I always say. Right, angel?_

As soon as he said it, a retaliation in the form of his door immediately hitting the gate as he got out wiped that smug look off his proud face, “Argh! You didn’t have to scratch the car!” Not one to stand down, he squeezed into the small gap between his car and the iron gate instead of just driving forward.

Victory against an inanimate object secured, Crowley made his way to the door, still thinking about what to say, vacillating from too aggressive and too awkward, “You’re a demon for someone’s sake, why is _this_ making you anxious.”

The sound of a clearing throat took him out of his headspace. There she was, standing in front of him. Bespectacled eyes slowly narrow as she looked at him, one hand still anchored to the door as though she were preparing to flee through it and into the safety of the house. They stared at each other, a silent question floating in the air, waiting to be snatched by the demon before it falls flat between them. 

“Please,” was all he got to say.

***********************************************

“It’s not like I was demoted or anything,” Gabriel downed his whiskey in one gulp, “This is good by the way. I still don’t understand why he consumes organic stock, but it’s no wonder Aziraphale likes the intoxicants.”

Beelzebub was nursing their own tumbler, the amber catching the lowlight of the bar. If you had told them a couple of months ago that they would be spending one night per week with an Archangel of all celestial beings, they’d probably smite you on the spot, or whatever you call its demonic equivalent. “You’re the only one I know who calls booze intoxicants.” 

Hell’s relationship with Heaven can’t simply be described as ‘adversarial’, it’s much more complex than that. The endless tug between the opposing sides creates a balance that most haven’t fully discerned. It's like a symbiotic relationship. Good cannot be defined without the contrast of evil. How can you say this is good whiskey, when you haven't even tasted a stale one? _Or milk. Damn milk_ , complained the lactose intolerant Lord of Flies. That’s why every few hundred years, they would meet, aligning and maintaining that balance. 

But this routine they started with Gabriel is starting to test a threshold they didn’t even know existed. _How long can I keep doing this without cutting my ears off?_

“Anyway,” Gabriel continued, “She keeps reassuring me that I still have jurisdiction over Earth. But do you know how uncomfortable it is to ask an angel from a higher sphere to submit their report?” He looked at them, actually, honest to goodness, expecting an answer, “Well?”

“Gabriel, if you want me to coo over your hurt feelings, you’re wasting your time.” 

Every night it’s the same rant. And each time, they’ll allow him to spout off at least for a couple of minutes because, well, no matter how annoying the Archangel was they knew how uptight it can get up there, he needed to let off steam. Besides, it’s not like their situation was any different. 

A few weeks after Armageddon didn’t happen, they were able to force Hell’s hordes to cool it for now. Some may continue to grouse about it, but they wisely did so when Beelzebub was out of earshot. Things were slowly getting back to order when they were called by one of the cruelest of them all - the Admin Officer. 

There’s nothing more infuriating than your projects being held off or your expenses being questioned because of administrative red tape. But what makes them shudder is the demon filling in the role, the infernal Prime Minister, Lucifuge. The ‘Admin Officer’ title is just meant to throw you off, but really she’s there to make sure everyone’s in line, and what better way to do that than by taking a more clerical position. With all the access she has to the power of the Ruler of Hell, doing that was a trivial move.

> _“Top level decided to let you keep your position,”_ she said, _“But we need to replace your previous agent with someone more efficient.”_

They were told that no one wanted to take the post initially because of the “occupational risks” of working on Earth and the “sanctions” for failing. Until a demon with the right credentials volunteered. And just like that, Beelzebub ended up supervising someone “highly recommended” by the powers that be. 

A stick in the arse.

“That was a cock-up, what happened,” Beelzebub stared down at the glass in between their hands, watching the whiskey and the light’s irregular dance. “It wasn’t our fault.”

“But it wasn’t necessarily _their_ fault, too. We know nothing about the Ineffable Plan. The more I think about it, the more Crowley’s and your angel’s actions, irritatingly, seem more aligned.”

A sigh from deep within, an exasperation that Gabriel only let out during nights like this, “I know. But they were still substandard employees. Can’t even fill in reports in the proper format. And we’re allowed to be bitter about that.”

It seemed nights like this have become more like a coping mechanism. For both of them. 

They’ll hold off on the ear-cutting for now.

***********************************************

_Phone keeps buzzing._

_One more and I might just throw it at the wall._

_Oh, no. That means I have to move._

_Got to open my eyes first, I guess._

_Eye gunk around my eyes, check. Vision blurry, check. And a little light hurts, check!_

_Need to move now. Oil up my rusty limbs._

_Right arm up._

_Do it slowly, jeez!_

_Left arm up._

_Eck, pruney fingers. A sickly, pale instead of my warm, brown skin._

_Move my head from side to side._

_Nope, not a good idea._

_I knew that._

_I should talk. Unclog the pipes_

“Hello.”

_I sound like if Gollum and Beetlejuice had a baby._

“Ha!”

_Shit that hurts._

_This is going great so far._

_Another buzzing._

_Ignore it._

**Buzz!**

**Buzz!**

_Ignoring intensifies!_

**Buzz!**

**Buzz!**

**Buzz!**

**Buzz!**

“Fine, let’s get on with it, then.”

***********************************************

“What did you nail that with, witch?!” It wasn’t the repelling force of the horseshoe but the shock of suddenly hitting a wall of energy that has Crowley sprawling on Anathema’s lawn and feeling for a lump on his head.

“It’s Anathema. And this is the last time I’ll respond to ‘witch’ so you better start remembering my name,” she admonished. Anathema honestly didn’t think that the horseshoe actually works, considering Adam was the only demon-born she knew and _he_ was able to enter the cottage. 

There were countless traditions associated with a cold iron horseshoe. A popular one involved Saint Dunstan who nailed a red hot horseshoe on the devil’s hoof when all they wanted was to commission effective footwear. He made them all promise to respect the ‘symbol of the horseshoe’ and never enter any building where it’s hanging. 

To be fair, if you’re a demon who visits a blacksmith known for pulling your kind by the nose with heated pincers, you’re very much asking for it. Apart from that though, it was horrible customer service so they all just agreed to do what he said. A complete nuisance, that, but it never occurred to Anathema nor Crowley that it would carry throughout centuries, proving once again that if you hate something or someone with so much intensity, all things can be manifested.

“Now, stop whining and help us set-up,” she laid out a blanket on her front garden under the shade of her largest tree, her student was making them snacks back at the house, and Newt was working on prying the horseshoe off, which meant he called the local handyman to do it for him.

Crowley told her about what happened after their stint at the airbase. Their body swap, their respective punishments, and even their theories about an epic war between humanity and the forces of Heaven and Hell. Then he got to the angel, who she now knows is named Aziraphale, and the moments when he lost all manner of contact with him. 

To say that Crowley was overwrought was an understatement. 

Save for getting a ride to her cottage when they hit her, Anathema didn’t know anything about the beings who helped stave off the end of the world. Even so, it was obvious then how attached they were, she can only guess that something bad must’ve happened to Aziraphale to make Crowley desperate now.

“So, why do you think I can help?” Her student arrived placing a whole tray of finger sandwiches and cups of tea on their blanket, effectively turning a grim conversation into a true English afternoon picnic. “This is my student, Elijah, by the way.”

“Oh, just Haj is fine,” he gave them each their cup before settling right next to Anathema, both of them now looking expectantly at the demon. He’s been fidgeting with a small velvet box since they sat down and hasn’t once looked at Anathema. The moment it seemed he finished some internal debate, with his head still bowed, Crowley places the box in between the three of them. “That’s his. Uh, he wears it all the time.”

There’s something to be said about Haj. Anathema didn’t really expect to be teaching anyone what she does, especially someone who lives in Tadfield since most of them are already rattled by her. But he kept badgering her like an app that sends you countless notifications to get you to do something until it has irritated you enough that you let it win and you do it. 

> _“Shall I start wearing witchy clothes, as well?”_ their session about chakras went as well as she could’ve hoped, considering the 15-year old practically knows nothing about it.
> 
> _“‘Witchy clothes?’”_ Anathema keeps reminding herself that this is a child and arguing with one is not only frowned upon but useless, especially with this one particularly.
> 
> _“Yeah, something dark and sinister looking. The kind of clothes that look like they’re from a Forever1700s.”_
> 
> At this rate, her nose will detach from her face with the amount of times she’s pinched the bridge red. _“So what you’re saying is, my clothes look ‘witchy’ and that I purposely did it because I am.”_
> 
> Haj tries to backpedal, _“Well, you know, like in RPGs. Your armour_ adds _to the strength of your skills….I’m being very stupid, aren’t I?”_
> 
> _“Hmm,”_ Anathema squints at him, “ _You can keep wearing your slim fit shorts and sweaters. I don’t like the idea of you being_ extra _insufferable.”_

So when he broke the moment with, “Well, that looks like a really cool box, I’m sure he looked good in it.” Anathema wanted nothing more than for the ground to open and swallow Haj up so there’s one less notification in a phone that’s already losing data storage.

For all of that though, she gets little reminders of why she agreed to the boy’s request. Haj doesn’t pick up the box, instead his right hand hovered over it, then he closed his eyes and took a few cleansing breaths. “It’s there, but it’s weak. You were right to keep it in a box.”

Crowley lifted his gaze, looking from the box to the boy, Anathema bearing witness to a demon’s trust being prodded with a stick. Haj may lack the seriousness and focus, and he may not yet have the vocabulary to describe what he’s experiencing, but his high sensitivity and intuition promises a potential that comes up once in a while. 

“Anyway,” Anathema chipped in, “That still doesn’t answer my question. How sure are you that I can help you and not your demon or angel friends?”

Crowley visibly winced, “We don’t exactly have other friends. We’re _it_.” He rearranged himself on the blanket so that his back is propped against the trunk of the tree. 

He took off his glasses and turned his attention to her, “We’ve both always believed that humans are immensely gifted. When you apply yourself enough, you'll be able to change the course of the world without any of our sides’ influences, and we’ve seen this happen many times in history. Whether it’s for good or not, well, a consequence of free will is that you get to experience both, I think.”

“But why me?”

“I don’t know a lot of witches living in London, witch,” Crowley smirked, “I also think that if I can’t do it, surely a witch who stopped Armageddon and faced down the Horsemen of Apocalypse _and_ Satan himself would do the trick.”

If not for the gratifying feeling from Haj’s look of shock, it’s the sincerity of Crowley's words that made her accept. Anathema briefly reflected as he watched the demon's hesitant fingers close on velvet box.

 _Missing my meddling, huh?,_ she called out to the universe.

Tadfield was an oasis of calm this afternoon. And Agnes, she thought, must be howling with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm trying to see if I can publish twice a week so I can shock my brain cells, so let's see how that goes! 
> 
> Might also read back to edit this, but I think it's just going to be a very very cute, very minimal edit ;)
> 
> Once again, if you're here, thank you for reading!


	4. The push and pull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Slight graphic descriptions of torture in the 2nd beat. It's short, but if you want to skip the worst of it, it's after “How are you finding your time on Earth, demon?" and ends at “Look at what you made me do..."

> Echoes of desperate hymns from the Fallen still haunt Heaven. 
> 
> The atmosphere in the celestial city was filled with an enmity that hasn’t been addressed since the last war, held in place by fear that anytime, all of them will be unmade. After Lucifer’s rebellion against the existence of man and his vow to ensure none of them will come to know Her love, Heaven sent Angelic observers, meant to guide God’s creation and keep guard.
> 
> _But their arrogance made them lose their way_ , the angel thought. 
> 
> So they sing, praying that they be blessed with Divine Grace again. Trapped in a place no other being is allowed to enter - if it can be found at all. Conscious of each grain that passes through the sands of time, watching - just watching.
> 
> _And now I’m_ _charged to take their place._
> 
> An angel, given another title, entrusted with a mission suitable to his nature.
> 
> _“I love them. I may not have been much of a warrior here, but I will, to the best of my abilities, guide and defend them.”_
> 
> And God was satisfied.

***********************************************

 _So bored. So very bored_.

Aziraphale disliked very few things, mostly because if he found himself in a situation he didn’t want to be in, it’s easy enough to extricate himself from it. Being a captive, however, was a real nuisance. 

Cults, he can manage. Sometimes he’d even humour them by showing just a tiny bit of his eldritch form until one of them faints, or perform a few miracles if that’s what they needed. But being held against his will by supernatural beings was getting on his nerves already. 

Sure, his human form was tortured within an inch of its life, and they may have used magic so that his true form also takes the brunt of the pain; but they’re not really succeeding in what this exercise was supposed to be doing. Araquiel meant for this to be for penance through mortification of the flesh, but it’s all disorganised and uninspired. He can think of reading materials to recommend - the lord knows the Catholic church are specialists on the subject matter - just to give them _some_ direction. The only thing he regretted, really, was being forced to participate in this.

Every time a session started, they’d pick an implement that will do the least damage and then work their way up from there. They’re very methodical, which would have been fine, but they’ve also become very predictable. He can almost always tell the order of the instruments they’ll use on him each time. And worst of all, it’s done in silence. _They clearly haven’t been paying attention to Earth all this time - the humans are better at this._

Araquiel made it a point to heal a few of the wounds so he doesn’t discorporate, but Algaz kept him from falling asleep. Red-eyed, tired, and in pain, each day blurs into the next. He would shut his mind off just to get any semblance of rest, blocking everything out except for the sound of his breath. 

Like clockwork, Aziraphale felt the tug of his enchanted chains, hauling him up and lifting his arms as it attached itself to the ceiling. Both angel and demon enter the room, today, with his breakfast on hand. They tried to feed him sometimes, an attempt at taunting him since it isn’t exactly a secret that he indulges in food. But they’re going to have to try harder than a bowl of stale oats.

“Principality,” Araquiel said in greeting, “I hope you’re feeling peckish this time. I’m starting to think you just don’t like my cooking.”

“I would have to _taste_ your cooking first, Captain, before deciding if I like it.”

“Hmm, another refusal, then.” She miracled the bowl away and proceeded to sit on his bed, “Fine. Algaz, I’ll leave it up to you this time. I think I just want to watch.”

It became obvious early on that if the demon had been one of hell’s torturers, he wasn’t the kind to have a goal in mind. On days like this, when he’s being given free-reign to conduct the session, he’d be rash about it, dead set only on making him scream in pain rather than help the angel determine his guilt. _I wonder if_ I _can make today more exciting._

“How are you finding your time on Earth, demon? Anything caught your eye yet?” Aziraphale asked, testing. “Nothing? Crowley liked the cars - I rather thought ‘fast and furious’ would be your deal as well.” That earned him a strong blow to the back of the head and a quick jab to the jaw, disorienting him. The demon then picked up the heavy club and started beating him relentlessly. 

Aziraphale tried to gather his thoughts again. “I-I was obviously more - ah- more of a sensualist, you see. I tt-tend to avoid any form of suffering if I can help it.” Another hit at the back of his thighs and square on his back had him hanging slack in his chains. “I’m not doing verrrry well in th-that, I suppose,” he replied, his harsh voice betraying the intended snark.

He must be getting somewhere because Araquiel stood brusquely from the bed and signalled for the demon to stop. “What are you doing, Principality?”

The whistling sound of his laboured breathing creates a tune he’s all too familiar with already. “Nnn-nothing sinister, Captain,” he said.“I’ merely mmm-making conversation. Since we’re all friends now.”

Algaz took hold of a serrated whip and heated it up with his hands. “You really don’t want to irritate me today, angel. I already have _her_ to deal with,” the dulcet tones of the demon may as well have come from one of those radio dramas he listens to. _Such a shame he’s doing this instead._

“Why _do_ you deal with her?”

Araquiel grabbed the fiery whip from the demon and struck across Aziraphale’s back, the notches reached his right shoulder, hooking on his flesh easily. His vision was nothing more than the whirling figures of them both as the room spins under his feet. _Don’t scream. Not yet._

She pulled back and did it again and again until the canvas is all painted red-gold. Weakly, he tightened his hold on his chains as he tried to lift himself up a little. “Look at what you made me do, Aziraphale,” she tutted like how a mother would, filling him with renewed rage. She healed only the worst of his wounds closed to avoid significant blood loss and then miracled the cilice back so that the rough material was grazing what’s left of his injuries. “You’re trying to get to something, so let’s figure that out instead.”

The demon cleaned up some of the blood on his body with a snap and readjusted the position of his chains so that his arms were stretched and extended to its limits. “Araquiel here wants to waste time breaking you so you can forget this nonsense about hindering plans and understand, _really_ understand what we’re trying to do here. But I don’t hold the same opinion. What I really want is to see you and your demon friend gone.”

“You see, Principality,” the angel interposed, “You have forgotten why Her Divine Plan was drilled into us since our creation because of your hedonism and arrogance. You thought that your time on Earth and humanity's existence trumps everything we have worked for to make sure the Plan moves forward. But there is an expiration to everything, and humanity's time on Earth has definitely gone past it, all thanks to you and Crowley. We’re not expecting much from the demon, but you, angel, disappoint me.”

“No offense, Captain, I had no idea who you were. What makes you think your opinion of me matters now?”

A beat before peals of laughter burst from both angel and demon. “What did I tell you, Algaz? Underneath the softness, there’s a warrior in there. Don't you think that might be useful to us?”

Algaz started wiping tears from his eyes, “Yeah, but we’ll have to beat the hedonist out of him first before he’s even remotely useful.”

“May I ask what it is I’m supposed to be useful for?”

He considered Aziraphale for a moment, weighing in his mind what he can reveal to him. “You know what title they should give you - Aziraphale, the Angel of Small Joys.” The angel beside him cackled with renewed vigour. “Fleeting and temporary bouts of pleasure, quickly fading away to make suffering even more unbearable,” the demon added.

“Well, I do indulge too much on Earth’s pleasures, don't I? But Michael has an excessive love for swords as well, you don’t hear me saying anything about _that_.” This time Algaz and Araquiel were in a howling fit. _I should consider going into comedy when this is all over_. Aziraphale waited for them to settle and paused a moment before saying, “But don’t take small joys for granted. A lot of people find comfort in a brief respite, sometimes that’s all it takes.”

They turned to him now, the reply clearly not appreciated as the angel miracled off the cilice shirt again and nodded at Algaz to continue the day’s session. “I have no plans of keeping you in the dark for long, Principality. You will know soon enough,” the angel said.

_Today is different, at least. I now know there’s a plan._

***********************************************

“YOU DIED.”

Death flashed blood red on the screen for Reeva more times than she wanted today. You would think that she’d be quite good with the hours she’s dedicated to video games, but she’s barely even considered a decent one. Not that she isn’t a good gamer, but that her ‘run towards danger’ attitude was what kills her most of the time and gets her teammates in trouble. 

She’s been waiting to get her hands on this RPG for more than a year. No other players to worry about, no one to support - just her and the rash decisions she’ll be making. However, being physically unable to move for a week gummed up her plans of locking herself in to play. Instead, she was green about the gills with Azrael himself putting the damp cloth on her forehead. 

And so Reeva indulged, throwing caution to the winds of Fyvrin by being recklessly and needlessly more aggressive. 

Comfortably dim, the hazy light coming from her desktop was the only source of illumination in her flat. Even this was still too much before she feels like pointed shards are being plunged behind her eyes threatening a head-splitting ache. 

“Well, there’s that.” She checked her phone and saw a message from Charlie. The whole time she was indisposed all the messages came from him, ranging from concerned friend to threatening to kick her door if she doesn’t reply. He made it very clear that Reeva needed to “crawl out of her hole to prove she’s still alive or suffer the consequences.” 

_Hell hath no fury than a Charlie left on read._

Making the mildest of efforts in straightening out her place, she decided to just go extra casual with a plain olive green shirt and jeans. Keys and wallet safely in her rucksack, sunglasses filtering out most of the light, and a feel-good tune blaring out from her earbuds, Reeva made her way to the small cafe with the pistachio latte that she liked just a couple of blocks away.

Lost in the melody, she didn’t hear the excited screaming of her friend already sprinting towards her. “REEEEEVAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” He jumped at her, both nearly falling face first on the pavement, “Oh thank god, I was worried I had to do a seance just to talk to you.”

“Hello to you, too, Charlie,” noting the short crop of his hair, newly-dyed with grey and faded blue.

“Hmm,” he looked her over, tilting his head and spinning her around, “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’re still looking a bit pale.”

“Yeah, just a little light sensitive.” Even through the lightly tinted lenses, she can see that her skin still looked like a muted version of her deep chestnut skin. It’s the only visible sign that she had been sick. “Maybe not a hundred percent, but much better now.” Feeling the slight breeze through the frizzy, loopy curls framing her face, she puts her arm through Charlie’s and continued the short walk to the cafe.

“You will have nothing but healthy food today,” he told Reeva as both settle down at one of the tables in a semi-private nook. “And before you even ask, yes, not even the wicked oreos.” 

Sometimes she tells herself that the only reason why she’s letting him nag her into doing anything was because arguing with Charlie can be such a doozy. Today though, he obviously tried hard to match his gothic band crop top with the long swishy skirt she gave him for Christmas. And she realised right then that she can always choose _not_ to do what he’s saying, but that she always does because he'll also go out of his way for her. The fact that everything he’s making her do is mostly for her sake was just the fortunate consequence of being the more sensible friend in this duo.

“So,” she speared a carrot slathered with ranch sauce with her fork, “What have you been up to while I was dying in bed?” 

The last time she saw him was at some weekend bazaar for one of Charlie’s gigs. She had to suffer through his whining about not being able to schedule an appointment at that hipster barbershop he likes.

> _“It’s about familiarity, Ree. I want to be comfortable when I’m getting a haircut.”_

Charlie rolled his eyes and threw a scrunched up napkin at her, “First of all, you weren’t answering my messages. How would I know that you were already sick? I’m not psychic, Reeva, you actually have to tell me.” 

A flash of guilt crossed her face, “I know, Cee. But just moving was painful and it felt like everything was too much somehow, you know? Too strong smells, too loud noises, too many sensations that either overwhelm me or hurt me. It wasn’t intentional.”

He reached for her hand, giving her a soft smile, “Don’t mind me much, hun, I’m just being dramatic. I’m just glad you’re feeling good enough to then ignore me again for your bloody video game before I had to force you to meet up with me.”

The conversation flowed like the tuning of a guitar, adjusting a couple of strings. Both were easily changing the tune, from Charlie’s upcoming performances to Reeva’s commissioned projects, until eventually they were playing the same sounding chords.

“Aren’t you having a hard time eating with the sunglasses on? The light’s quite tolerable here, it might help your eyes adjust if you try to take them off,” he said. Reeva nodded her agreement. With her eyes shut, she took off her glasses. “Open them slowly, so you don’t shock your eyes.”

“There, how’s that?” he asked. 

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s much better. I really do love seeing that you’re eating Salisbury while I’m having mulched cardboard pasta and a plate of dry vegetables.” 

“Ah sorry, no, it’s _mixed_ dry vegetables you’re having with that mulched cardboard _tofu_ pasta, and it’s good for you.”

Reeva tried to look around to help her eyes adjust to even more light without triggering a headache. 

_What is that?_

She’s not seeing it on everyone, but it’s very strange that she can see it at all. 

_There’s...colours?_ Blue, green, and brown mostly, within and around a few people. Like the colour was coming from their chest and encasing them. A little feeble, but it’s distinct enough for her to note that they’re not supposed to have it. 

It’s pulsing, too. Like if an in-game character powers up and a whole shield of colour indicated an elixir or gem was taking effect.

Charlie cleared his throat, noticing how Reeva was squinting at one of the customers with so much intensity. “Ree, do your eyes still hurt?”

“Hey, can you see that?” she asked. 

“See what?”

“That man, there’s like a light brown colour around him. Don’t you see it?”

Almost turning completely, he tried to look very closely. “I don’t see it, Ree. Might just be your eyes still adjusting. They say you see rods and spots when you’ve been in the dark long,” he said. 

“Yeah, sorry,” she’s about to get back to eating when she spotted the same burst of colour around her and _inside_ her. 

_I’ve got indigo._

She looked around again, catching sight of the others who have them just to confirm she hasn’t gone insane. _I can still see it_. Then Reeva looked up to check if Charlie has one, but there’s nothing there. He saw her staring, eyes going wide with shock, she scrambles to get the glasses, “I think I’ll wear these, just for today.”

“Sure, if it helps,” he chuckled. “For a moment there I thought there’s something weird on my face.”

***********************************************

“I think you’re dismissing me on purpose, witch.” Crowley said as he weaved through London traffic while Anathema and Haj held on for dear life. He parked the Bentley haphazardly in front of the bookshop as per normal, with both his passengers muttering about speed limits and pedestrians.

“You know that the traffic lights aren’t suggestions you can choose to ignore, right?” Anathema said.

“Eh, anyway, that’s not the point. You keep telling me this won’t help, but we haven’t even tried it yet.”

On the second day of their failed attempt at tracking the angel, the demon thought that going back to Soho might be a good idea. He argued that if it’s about the amount of energy needed, then where better to access it than the one place he’s dedicated centuries to build - A.Z. Fell and Co., whose Yelp reviews about its snippy seller did nothing to prevent them from visiting once they saw photos of the vintage interior of the shop. 

> _“Crowley, what is a ‘Gram’? I’ve got people coming in just to take photos “for the gram” and they’re being rowdy. Is that a new telegram service?”_

“I agree with him, actually,” Haj said as he got out of the car. He saw Anathema’s affronted look, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, it kind of makes sense! The stuff there all belonged to the angel, it’s a surprise we haven’t thought of this at the beginning.”

Both are making their way to the front when Crowley stopped them, “Wait. Can we - can we take a moment? Before going in?”

She and Haj stepped back to stand with the demon at the foot of the steps, “Sure, take all the time you need.” They silently regard the still bookshop. Around them, the street was buzzing with activity from the lunch crowd, a stark contrast to the quiet reverence of the group. “Okay, let’s go.”

Once they’re inside, Anathema quickly turned to Haj, “This is exactly why I said it’s not going to work,” gesturing at everything. “It’s old, _and_ it’s mostly paper and wood.”

“In my defence, I didn’t know the place was going to be this old.”

“Oh, yeah, right, you didn’t think a bookshop owned by an immortal being for _centuries_ wasn’t old?”

“Look at him Anathema,” a finger pointing rudely at Crowley, “He looks like he came out of the latest Men’s Vogue, how was I to know that the angel is more - “

“More what?” the demon’s raised eyebrow challenging him to continue what he’s saying.

“Old-fashioned?” the boy supplied.

Crowley only huffed, “We’ve already lost enough time. There must be something here that can help us.” With that, all three were going around the bookshop to find anything, any clue that might help them. Anathema told him that their concern shouldn’t be tracking Aziraphale yet but making the connection first. So far they’re not making any progress, and it’s worrying because they don’t know how the angel’s essence within the ring will last.

Hence, the visit to the bookshop.

“You were saying something about the bookshop being old - why won’t that help again?” Crowley asked, hands moving lightly over the bindings of each delicate spine, fondly remembering how the angel would fuss over the books when the customers were being careless.

Haj stepped close behind him, startling the demon. “It’s something to do with absorption. I once panicked when Anathema brought me to an old church with statues and all that. I was bombarded with a desperation unique to a church, hundreds of years worth. It was like listening to the static wailing of Ye Olde England, it was horrible.” 

Anathema suddenly joined them, making Crowley jump again. “There’s something completely wrong with both of you,” he said clutching his chest.

“Old things store a lot of information,” she started. “The same goes for paper and wood, they actually absorb a good deal of energy. This bookshop is filled with it, and not just the people coming in, but there’s something much stronger here. Maybe that’s just from you and Aziraphale, maybe from other celestial beings - I can’t really sift through all of it yet, but we’re basically inside a room of various but concentrated energy.”

“And that’s why it’s not helpful,” Haj said.

Crowley nodded in understanding. “Let’s check one more area. For my peace of mind. Just want to make sure we’ve covered our bases.” He led them to the backroom, with the blood tracks still evident, its pristine air tells more about being uninhabited than immaculate. Crowley was expecting Anathema to tell him the same thing, especially since this was where Aziraphale brings Gabriel, too, for his reports. _And where he was attacked by those bastards._ What he didn’t expect was getting hit in the arm, “Aw! What’s that for?”

“Why didn’t you tell us he has a coat?” Anathema almost shouted. She walked closer to the couch where Crowley left it hanging at the armrest and leaned over to inspect it. He noticed that she’s not picking it up yet but being careful where her hands were. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise a ring he’s worn since his time in Heaven isn’t going to be enough. Besides, I don’t think we can pick up anything helpful with that,” he said.

“No, this could’ve made a whole lot of difference.” Haj said softly. The boy’s eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration. “It’s a lot of old material that has mostly only made contact with the angel.”

The demon began to feel anxious again. “I _tried_ using the coat. But - but all I could see was him being attacked...And I couldn’t get past it. So I didn’t - I didn’t think...” 

Anathema puts her satchel down on the couch and settled down on the floor, “Then we’ll help you get past it.” Haj quickly joined her and looked expectantly at Crowley. “Our initial plan was to make a connection first, that hasn’t changed. But we need to lock onto his signature. For obvious reasons, Haj and I won’t be able to hold onto it for very long.”

“Ah, we’ll be batteries, then,” Haj said.

“Yes, exactly. Well, look at you remembering our lessons.”

Crowley picked up the coat delicately. He can still remember the snippets of Aziraphale’s last moments before being taken. Can still feel on his own body how the coat got its various tears. He wanted to do this, if it’s the only way to find him, but the demon’s not sure if he can take another round of those memories. _You were hurting and I wasn’t there_. 

He picked up a throw pillow from the couch and placed it on the floor, and then laid the coat on it so that it’s in between them. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Anathema.

“First, you’re not going to remove the blood stains on the coat? Might make it easier.” The 'make the experience easier for you' is implied.

“I assumed that Heaven and Hell were targeting us again...When I calmed down, when I used the coat to track him, among the blurry images were _humans_. Then I started paying more attention to the blood stains - they were all human with angelic _and_ demonic essences.” he replied with a non-answer. 

“Might be helpful next time, yeah?” the boy was troublesome and rude most of the time, but his level of discernment can be surprising. 

Anathema removed her glasses, so Crowley does the same. Giving themselves time to settle to a comfortable position, she proceeded to explain what’s going to happen. “The three of us will access the energy, but you’re mostly going to lead us. Haj and I will be your batteries so that we can continue doing it until you’ve made a connection.”

“Good, okay...what is a battery?” He ignored the flabbergasted look Haj gave him and looked pointedly at Anathema.

She explained that she doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to connect with Aziraphale’s energy through the memories stored by the coat. It’s sifting through hundreds of years of memories, jumping from really intense events to more mundane ones. To help, they’ll add their strength to his so he can keep pushing to make that connection. 

“We’ll also make sure you won’t get overwhelmed. Whether it’s just Aziraphale’s emotions or perhaps a memory he experienced with you and _you_ have strong feelings about it - that tends to be too much in the meditative state. So we’ll try to make it bearable.”

Then Haj added, “It’s going to be wild for the three of us. But, Anathema and I have the luxury of being outsiders looking in. We might be affected by what we’ll see, but not as much as you.”

With a new plan and a goal in mind, Crowley’s determined to get through this. “I understand. I’m ready.”

***********************************************

“Araquiel, there must be another way to do this. If I have to sell food to humans one more time, I’m gonna go on a rampage.” The demon joined her in the air, large jet black wings beating beside her pearlescent pinions. 

A benefit of her abilities was being able to create pocket dimensions hidden from any and all beings. “I think we’ve had enough specimens for now. We just need to be able to track each one so we know how it’s affected them.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that. Low-level demons who want to get a commendation from me are easy enough to persuade to do it. I’ll get reports every week.”

“Mmm, good. We’ll have to study those so we'll know how to proceed.”

“You know a riot broke out that lasted for weeks when Beelzebub was unable to kill the traitor,” he said. “I heard the same thing happened upstairs with your angel.”

Angels don’t do riots, but thousands of angry soldiers demanding answers as to why Aziraphale was let out alive probably had the same effect. However, not even a month has passed and it’s back to normal operations.

 _How quickly they forget_. 

They have lived Her laws. They are Her laws. And if no one is to enforce it, then Araquiel has no choice but to carry that burden. An honour the generals of this flock have taken for granted.

_This plan needs to work. After all of this, Heaven will triumph._

Algaz interrupted her thoughts, “His demon friend will eventually be a problem. I’m quite sure he’s working on finding your Principality as we speak.”

Araquiel and Algaz were not bothering to hide the hostility between them, they are natural enemies after all. At most they’re tolerating each other. But they must work together to ensure there will be no interference when the war starts.

“He can try. I really do wish he would try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I feel like I'm needlessly turning this into an epic fantasy type.


	5. Do you feel it?

The white light of the moon peeked through the cold wisps of the surrounding mist, rendering it insufficient to guide them down the smooth cobbled path. Crowley stood in front of the group, a solid image leading the way in between tall, stone block buildings with tiled-roofs, the hazy silhouettes of Anathema and Haj flanking him.

“Aziraphale’s exhausted, Crowley” came the hushed voice of Anathema. The angel’s corporeal and ethereal state was in the faded atmosphere of the realm and in the gradual increase of sputtering images. Each time they visited and saw how brittle the place has become, another level of fear is poured into Crowley’s being.

Getting a reading of the angel’s energy through the memories wasn’t the difficult part, because even in this condition, the echoes were strong enough to grasp. But a wall they keep hitting prevented the demon from binding to it. Even with the battery system, he can't quite penetrate the barrier. Around their fourth attempt, it’s become clear that something was intentionally shutting them out.

They did, however, learn that the energy exchange with the coat wasn’t as _expensive_ as the witch thought. Only a little of Aziraphale’s stored energy was being replaced with theirs each time they visited his memories. Haj guessed that it’s most likely because Crowley’s doing the brunt of the work, and they’re just there to support him. 

> _“I suppose we’re like your wingmen - “hyping” you up so you can get to your angel,_ ” he said, which rightly earned him a hard hit on the head by his mentor.

“We’re in Berlin, I think,” Crowley pressed forward, straining eyes and ears to find where this memory began. Right before the street ended there’s a building which looked like an inn with a window lit on the second floor. All three walked to it, passing through translucent spectres of people the angel had either met or the realm filled in for him. 

Muffled but rough sounding laughter can be heard as they make their way into the front room. Phantoms of people greeted them, some holding aloft large mugs while others gesticulated animatedly in a way that can only indicate an exciting conversation. They can only register fragments of these exchanges, as if everything is suspended in water and being carried aimlessly around them. 

After making their way up the side stairs off the loft, Haj immediately stepped around Crowley to go in front of the second door to the right. “It’s this one,” he said, hands poised at the doorknob. With a nod from Anathema, he slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. 

A ghostly yellow flooded the small room from the lamp on the table by the window. Crowley walked in first and saw Aziraphale sitting on the chair massaging his temples, an open book lying face down on his lap, and his ankles crossed on the bed. _That’s not how you use the bed, angel_ , he thought. 

Just like in all the memories they’ve been to, he always just takes it in before doing anything. Crowley has assumed he knew everything there is to know about Aziraphale, but he’s seeing different sides of the angel, thoughts he’s not been privy to. _Well, I’m sure prying into his memories is a privacy issue, but needs must._ Focused on Aziraphale’s image, he walked to the bed and sat by his feet. Closing his eyes, he reached out to get as close to him as he can, knowing full well that his hand will just go through the mirage, the action helping to anchor him somehow.

He reached within himself, breathing in and out deeply until the energy inside built up and then drifted towards the angel. It, too, started to reach out, the tendrils of him trying to latch onto Aziraphale’s energy. Whatever the angel felt at the moment, he experienced it too. This memory has a slight hint of being worn out rolled in with annoyance.

“Aziraphale was not too fond of the politics stuff. He said it’s just hours of sitting in on meetings when he could be around performing miracles,” Crowley said under his breath. “But he does it and he’d say, ‘Well, sometimes the most mundane things have the more lasting effect, don’t you agree?’” 

He held on to the angel’s essence, carefully melding to it. Crowley was aware that nothing bad was going to happen with them mixing like this ever since the body swap, but he wants to make sure he doesn’t shock him in the real world. He felt it - the link strengthening, joining together until he’s almost filled with it. 

Then a barrier. An unseen blockade of concentrated power keeping him from finishing the binding. Crowley started to hold on to as much as he can before everything around them stuttered. 

“Something’s happening to him outside, I think,” Haj said.

“Yeah, it’s getting harder and harder to do this each time,” Anathema said.

In an instant, a new memory faded in and they found themselves in a lavish parlour filled with spectres of men dressed in expensive suits. They sae Aziraphale standing by the bar at the other end of the room, the familiar cream-coloured coattail suit and tophat making him noticeable. Already frustrated for failing again, Crowley marched towards the bar and stood directly in front of the angel. 

Ringed and bloodshot, his eyes were staring blankly through him. _What happened?_

“Mr. Fell,” said the spectre behind the bar. “Would you like your usual, sir?”

“Something stronger perhaps, my good man,” the angel absently replied, “Wine is for good times.”

“Certainly, sir. Something the matter?”

Aziraphale finally turned to regard the bartender, “Oh, well, I’m still thinking about the fall out with my...friend. Haven’t seen him in a while. He must’ve left London already.”

 _Fall out with a friend?_ Crowley moved to stand beside the angel and looked at him questioningly. _What friend are you talk-- Oh…_

“Hey,” he murmured, “I know what this memory is about.” 

Up until now, they’ve only been to memories he can’t recognise - a stint in shogunate Japan, a Royal Navy prison during The Golden Age of Piracy - and considering the angel wasn’t exactly laconic, he’s not mentioned some of these events on any of their drinking bouts. _Or you’re too drunk to remember._

“I know what happened. Before this scene, I mean....I asked for holy water.”

“And it didn’t end well?” she asked.

Crowley nodded, “We had a row. He wouldn’t give it to me. Thought I would use it on myself.”

Something was breaking inside of him, something strong wanting to come out. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. _I made you be like this_. It repeated. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. It became a spinning ball that wanted to explode, within and without. Crowley tried to get his bearings, shutting his eyes and minding his breath, but without his full control these feelings stretched out, covering the angel, comforting him. In his mind’s eye he saw it form a protective shield around the angel. 

Then he felt it break.

“Anathema, can you support him? I’ll try to enhance his emotions instead of soothing it this time,” Haj whispered. 

She moved behind the demon and braced herself as she placed both hands on his back, “Crowley, whatever it is you’re doing, keep it doing it.”

All three started focusing on the binding - Anathema assisting Crowley with the link and pushing the wall further, while Haj worked to riot the demon’s emotions.

_Please. Please. Please._

But the wall pushed back and they were shut out again, a force strong enough that it completely took them out and back to the bookshop. “We were _so_ close!” 

Anathema and Haj would try to give him a moment each time a session ends. Now more than ever, they gave him space for his rage. “It’s not a total failure, Crowley,” the witch said softly.

“How can you say that? I failed again!”

Haj stood and stretched, “No, Anathema’s right. We made our first progress today.”

“I--I don’t understand,” feeling defeated, he slumped and buried his face in his hands.

The boy took his backpack and gestured for Newt to go with him. Still a little groggy after driving through the night to come to the bookshop, he mindlessly complied. “We’ve just learnt what happens when it’s memories you shared with him,” Haj said.

As comforting as she can, Anathema touched the demon’s arm, “That means we can break through that wall. We just need a new gameplan, okay?” 

Crowley got his sunglasses beside him on the floor and sighed before nodding. “I’ll just be in the backroom. Let me know if we’re doing it again,” he said, standing up to leave.

“Anyway,” Haj said after a beat, “I’ll get us lunch. I’m suddenly craving for lots of grease.”

***********************************************

Her triple-monitor setup was determined to show just how much its price tag was worth every pound she spent on it. She had been working all night finishing the commissions that were left off from when she got ill, putting a dent on new requests, and making sure to update her online portfolio. 

To reward herself for every tab she closed that morning, in place of a full and hearty breakfast, Reeva took a bite off a Twix bar and chewed with satisfaction as she loaded up her game. _Get on that zombie killing frenzy, you deserve it._

The low sound of the undead wailing on her screen mixed perfectly with the perky voices of the Radio One DJs speaking through her phone. She entered a sort of trance - her body taking full control from her mind and allowing her the bliss of going on autopilot.

Of course, that’s the moment her calendar alarm decided to go off, because her past self can’t be bothered to do her errands in a timely manner so present self has to suffer for it. _Spend an inordinate amount of time upgrading this trashy weapon or be a responsible adult and do responsible things?_

In the end, until they find a way to convert game money to real money, she’s going to have to do her own laundry.

The days after Charlie met with her, Reeva has been freaking out about the colours. Day by day it’s gotten more difficult to ignore to the point that even wearing her sunglasses doesn’t work anymore. She decided to get on that long overdue doctor’s appointment, even specifically asking about it despite knowing that a sentence that starts with “this might sound crazy” is definitely going to sound crazy. But other than astigmatism and a very cool sounding Digital Eye Strain, she learnt nothing. 

It was in moments like this that any conscientious gamer would take inventory to see what they have to work with, especially if your most powerful armour was your ninth fur coat. In her head, she started pulling a menu to scroll through her stats. 

Creativity - 10/10 | Endurance - 5/10 | Vitality - 7/10 | Strength - 3/10 | Arcane - ?/10

With her experience points, she can upgrade Creativity and unlock Sketching what she’s seeing so that she can record it and show it to someone. If words can’t let her get past looking like a lunatic, visuals might help her explain. Not much to work with, but she’s got enough real life gold coins to purchase heavily tinted glasses to look cool, at least. Plus, it can reduce the intensity of the colours, if not to keep her from seeing it completely. 

And that’s how why she started donning her new shades each time she goes out in broad daylight. _Like level one gear for a newly bitten vampire._

At the nearly full laundrette, among the other renters and hostel guests, she took out her tablet while a week’s worth of clothes take a tumble. She jumped from one app to another, whiling away the time when she started picking up different conversations around her. Reeva removed her sunglasses, pulls out her stylus, and let her hands feel their flow. 

“He says the robber didn’t look like any kind of bloke he’s seen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ryan says the guy’s well tall!”

“That doesn’t mean anythin’, there’s lots of tall guys. You can’t be tellin’ me tall guys don’t mug people. I bet he was proper drunk and provoked a random guy on the street.”

Reeva starts with a rough sketch of a sinister looking creature, hunched shoulders but tall and muscular in build. It’s face was mostly shadow, and yet you can see its huge hands ready to reach out. She started colouring around the creature, a midnight blue that formed the backdrop of a threatening scene.

“And this is a picture of her wearing her tutu.”

“Oh, she looks beautiful!”

“Yeah, I know! You should’ve seen her there, looking like a ballerina, she was.”

A doodle of a little girl in a ballet attire, one leg en pointe and the other extended behind her, a delicate arabesque that made her look like she’s fluid as air. Choosing a different brush, she painted a halo of pale magenta around her head that spread across her back, the image capturing the peacefulness of an E.H. Shepherd illustration.

“Auggie’s still sick though, so it might just be me on game night.”

“Oh really, still?”

“Yeah, but the doctor says it’s just a cold. Hopefully he stops looking like one of those caricatures of sick people soon.”

She drew the bulbous head of a man with drooping eyelids, a swollen nose, with his tongue hanging from his mouth. Another brush change and she’s colouring in the man’s face with a green-grey hue that tells of a disruption of blood flow or of a bug that wore out its welcome.

Hearing the soft ding of her machine interrupted her flow. She looked down at her drawings, noting how each one radiated not just with a unique colour, but with their own distinct style. _Well, a flow is a flow._ Packing her tablet, she haphazardly folded and loaded her clothes back in her duffel bag, quickly wearing her shades as she left. 

It’s only a little after midday, and there’s a couple more hours before she needed to be at Charlie’s gig. _Doing one huge chore means I get to buy myself something nice!_

Reeva rushed to get home and was already going through a rolodex of games she saw on sale this morning when she bumped into a man she didn’t see walking opposite her. The bag dropped heavily on the pavement and her sunglasses flew off from her face. Momentarily blinded by a shock of light, she heard a string of apologies from a someone in front of her, while a much younger voice was calling out to him, “Newt, I got her sunglasses, can you pick up her bag?”

“I’m really sorry about that, are you alright?” the man, Newt, asked.

Her vision finally cleared enough for her to see a lanky man standing right in front of her. _Oh wow, I thought he’d be bigger._ “Yeah, I’m good. Uhm, I didn’t see you, either.”

“I know right,” the younger man approaching them chimed in, “How could _that_ put me off balance?”

“Haj, seriously mate,” Newt said. He handed her the duffel bag apologising again when she made the mistake of looking around. 

It isn’t just the colours anymore. _Their faces are glitching?_

Violently shaking, like the people haven’t fully loaded but they’re expected to move with the scenes already. The hues looked more like emanations on them rather than being surrounded by it. And it’s more than just reds, blues, and greens anymore, there are greys, whites, and blacks all pulsating around them.

Newt hesitated to give her the bag, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“M-my glasses please…please can I have them?”

Haj handed them over and looked at her carefully. Reeva puts them on quickly and releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Well, thank you, and sorry again,” she grabbed her duffel from Newt’s hands and practically ran away from them. She didn't even try to look back. 

If she did, Reeva would see Haj’s curious stare.

***********************************************

“Gabriel! Please, come in.”

Not the stuffy bookshop he was used to but an airy room at one of the chic townhouses in the city. _At least Aziraphale opened up a business. This is another expense for the department._ “Hey, Araquiel! I’m glad to see you’ve adjusted well to Earth.”

“Oh, yes. I find that I don’t like being in the crowds much. I had to spend quite a few miracles to get a place a little farther away. I hope you don’t think it’s frivolous.”

A level beyond pristine - the living room’s spotless, near immaculate, and everything from curtains to furnishings were whites matched with shades of blue and muted greys.If it could get anymore clean-looking and Heaven-like the room will have glowed on its own accord. “I just love this space,” Araquiel looked around the house like a child does at a new toy, “Reminds me of home.”

And what was he expected to think about that? Naturally he’s alright with it. But more than that, he can’t possibly refuse a request from someone of her rank, it’s basically one of her work benefits. “Speaking of home, I’d just like to say how grateful we are that you volunteered for this position. Considering after certain...events have transpired,” he said.

“Nothing to be grateful for, Gabriel. It’s our job to keep everything aligned. I think it’s disappointing what happened to the Principality. But now more than ever, we must remind Heaven that we have roles to fulfill and objectives to accomplish.”

Gabriel smiled awkwardly, “Yes, well, it’s a good thing Aziraphale’s gone, then. Finally out of our hair.”

She gave him a bored look and stood up to approach the bar cart, “Can I offer you something, Gabriel?” The angel’s looking over countless decanters of liquors and bottles of wine and settled on pouring one of the reds. 

Thankfully, she decided to forego the military garb. Recently, she’s been preferring this burgundy blazer over a beige blouse and pinstripe pants. _The power suit is even more intimidating._ “No, thank you, Araquiel. Just here for a short visit. See how you’ve been doing.”

She settled back on the couch and started fussing with the throw pillows, “Of course. Why don’t you take a seat.”

There’s only been a handful of times he’s had to drop around at the bookshop. Very few of it are for receiving the paperwork himself and only if Aziraphale was given a mission that needed overseeing. Most of the visits were for giving urgent orders. Commands. Boss popping in on an employee.

Not social calls. _You’re just not used to it, Gabriel. Buck up - everything’s a learning experience._ “I hear that you have pressing information about the...opposition?”

“Ah, yes,” she took a long sip of her wine and swished it in her mouth savouring. “The Great Duke Algaz, the one who replaced Crowley, do you know him?”

_Yes._

“No, haven’t heard of him. Did you say he’s the replacement agent on Earth?” Beelzebub has mentioned that this particular demon is a favourite among the higher orders. Known as the Knight Spectre in all the circles of Hell, riding in battle on his semi-skeletal horse said to have been raised from the remains of one of the horses from Eden itself. _Those are rumours, though...Probably._

“He’s a warrior of their version of the Middle Hierarchy. Quite like me, I suppose,” Araquiel miracles a small plate with an oatmeal raisin cookie on her lap. “You know, you said Aziraphale likes the food on Earth. I didn’t think I would, but this one, I quite like.”

_What was that on Aziraphale’s note from years ago?_

> _“...and I’m happy to report that raisins are definitely_ not _one of ours.”_

It’s weird to watch Araquiel eat. Then again it’s weird to watch people eat. She’s breaking the cookie in different pieces as if she’s going to be feeding multitudes in a second. “What about this Duke, Captain?” the Archangel asked.

She popped one of the pieces in her mouth and started brushing the cookie dust off the tips of her fingers on the plate. “I think it’s a little worrying they’ve assigned one of their strategists on Earth.” The angel took another sip of her wine, which Gabriel would have thought tasted horrible with the cookie, but if her corporation's taste buds know what’s good for them, they’ll make it good for her.

“Ah, I see why that’s a problem,” he said.

Araquiel was silent, busy going through her cookie pieces. Then she lifted her gaze and stared at him with calculating eyes. “You know, everyone’s wired up ever since Armageddon got cancelled. It wouldn’t be much of a leap to assume that Hell is preparing for one still, regardless of what happened.”

Gabriel leaned in, brows knitted in confusion, “What are you saying, Captain? That they’re preparing for a war behind our back?”

The soldier miracles her plate away and emptied her wine glass, “I believe they’ve already made their move, Gabriel. And I think it involves the _humans_ \- creatures we’re meant to protect. And why is that such a surprising concept?”

Purple eyes blown wide from the unfamiliar feeling of dubiety than shock. _Beelzebub never said anything about this…_

“Think of what I just said, Archangel. Then let’s talk about our plans of action on our next meeting. Until then, you can expect a detailed report by the end of this week.” The captain snapped her fingers and Gabriel suddenly finds himself thrust in the middle of a throng of people rushing in every direction. 

He quickly spent a miracle to keep people from colliding with him while he got bearings. The city lights and the bright shops gave the night the kind of glow unique to modern cities. From above, Gabriel can easily ignore the artificial lustre, thinking nothing more of it as just the start of the evening buzz of human activity. But looking around and being _within_ that activity - there was something quite contagious about it.

As the Angel of Revelation, he’s visited Earth countless times bearing important messages to humans who have been blessed with Her insight. However, he hasn’t stayed long enough to observe, to live with them. _To truly understand how Her love flows between each of them_. _But Aziraphale has_. Gabriel has become more introspective after the days of the failed Armageddon and has started asking himself what else he’s misunderstood. 

With one last look around, Gabriel turned to walk down the street towards the city centre. 

_Is that person wearing shades at night? Humans are too weird sometimes._

***********************************************

Mesmerizing brush strokes of orange, yellow, and purple fill up the sky as swirling thin clouds weave through them. Aziraphale, lying on his stomach on the hardened mattress, looked out from his window with an intense yearning he’s never felt before. _I spend most of my time with my nose buried in a book that I never once thought to just look up and admire._

The angel treasured these moments, when he’s left alone to appreciate the quiet and the stillness of his surroundings. Ever since his stunt a few days ago, his sessions have become even more violent. After finding out that they _do_ have an end-game and a plan that they say was already moving forward, he didn’t see the point of stopping if it means he’ll get information, albeit very slow progressing. But he only gets a few hours to pick up the pieces of his scattered mind and realign himself before another day begins. And by keeping him from sleep, each time becomes increasingly difficult.

Some days he would try to screw his eyes shut, hoping to drift off just to get to the interlude he’s been trying to chase. There’s only darkness, though, a very distorted, stomach-turning type he’d rather not experience. 

So there’s nothing left but this - the colours of twilight, a peaceful night, and an urgency to push through his task at hand. Call it intuition or some innate sense being triggered, but whatever they’re plotting, humanity is involved somehow or they wouldn’t waste their time here.

Those concerns aside, he allowed himself to be selfish and, just for a little while, turned his mind to the demon he left behind. Aziraphale didn't doubt that Crowley has started looking for a way to get to him, and wouldn’t be surprised if he succeeds. Somehow he has more than made up for the inadequacy of the angel’s survival skills, but for now he preferred it to be the other way around.

_Let me gain the upper hand so I can protect you this time._

Aziraphale emptied his mind - another attempt at using his almost drained pool of power to meditate. He did this the first days of his capture and quickly realised that there’s a point in this place, wherever this is, that’s completely blocked. Not only was he physically stuck here but he can only wander up until where the barrier was keeping him in. _They’re not taking any chances, apparently._

Generally, he didn’t like the energy here. It’s stifling. Still, a dog with a field however fenced still takes the opportunity to run, so he did his daily mind exercises and stretches out for a bit, extending what’s left of his energy as far as he can, like popping joints to stretch tight muscles.

He’s in the middle of it, enjoying the feeling of being made elastic, when a distant echo reverberated in his head.

**_“Aziraphale?”_ **

Aziraphale became tense. _Fatigue, that’s what it is. Nothing more._

**_“Angel?”_ **

Frowning, he jolted upright, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain. 

**_“Aziraphale?”_ **

_If this isn’t real…._

**_“I don’t know if I can keep this on for long.”_ **

_Please…_

**_“Are you there?”_ **

The angel let out a shaky breath.

“Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so much going on today that it's important to make sure that our actions are filled with compassion, kindness, and love, to remind ourselves that it's okay that if these are directed to the self, and that in the face of injustice and the curtailment of people's freedom and rights, that outrage may be the only response. 
> 
> *I found these links that may help direct people to the right donation drives for the Black Lives Matter movement: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/
> 
> But also allow me the opportunity to share a bit of what's happening in my country, where activism is being tagged as terrorism and the government is working on passing a bill to arrest protesters and make wiretapping legal: https://parasapinas.carrd.co/
> 
> I'll try to do more in-depth research, just posting these here to start; but do feel free to share more information even if it's not specifically about these but news from where you are.
> 
> *Updated these notes with cardd links which has more consolidated information


	6. Simmer and stay just below the boiling point.

Araquiel came into his room a few hours ago, interrupting his efforts to extend his mind once again to feel Crowley’s presence. 

Their last connection didn’t last for very long, whether it was because of his own weakness or an interference caused by this place. It at least kept long enough for him to confirm that it was indeed his best friend and not his mind playing tricks on him.

With assistance from the angel, Aziraphale was led out of the house so he could “air out and stretch”. His chains were replaced by weighted wrist cuffs that still cut his access to his powers. But even without it, he wouldn't have enough strength to escape. He doesn’t even know where he’s escaping from.

Outside, the captain miracles a small front garden seating area for her and tells Aziraphale he was free to explore the land. He didn’t know if he should be insulted that the Powers was confident he can’t do anything, but just the same, he’s relieved to finally be out of that stuffy room. _Like a pet that needs to be let out._

“May I please ask for a walking stick?” he asked carefully. Araquiel filled her table with thick folders. _I might miss being on active duty now and again, but not the paperwork_. He watched as she puts them in piles of three, pushed them at the far side of the table, leaving a free space in front of her to work on. “Yes, you may, Principality,” she held out her hand to her side and materialised a dark and polished long wooden stick, “Enjoy your walk,” she said with a smirk.

Aziraphale gripped the stick with both hands and leaned his weight on it, shifting his hold and stance until he’s comfortable. He saw a path just at the side leading towards a copse of trees a short distance from the house, and slowly limped towards it. Picking a tree that’s far and hidden enough, he settled gingerly on the grass, leaned back on its thick bark, and for the first time, allowed himself to truly relax.

Surrounded by all the vibrant colours of the plants and flowers and the sky looking bright and clear - Aziraphale can almost feel at peace here.

It had been curious when Araquiel came into his room alone. Aziraphale thought she might have sensed Crowley the other night, but the angel just said Algaz had important business to do and she needed to finish her paperwork. 

Too mundane, too normal, against the things they’ve been doing the past days. 

A small flock of birds come into view. Aziraphale started to think about the barrier that’s keeping his mind from reaching far and wondered whether it’s more of a mental than a physical blockade. And if it were, what would be on the other side? Will it look the same as his surroundings or is it a different place altogether? Not that he would even get a chance to find out. Disregarding his current state, he doesn’t have the mental and physical reserves to do anything. He would have to rely on Crowley. Again. 

Around him, an endless field, a few foliage, and those birds. 

Then his thoughts drifted to that brief link with Crowley. Aziraphale knew that the demon would eventually find a way to him, he always did. Very interesting to hear the demon sound so surprised to have made a connection, though. _Which means he’s been trying to for a long time. How long have I been here?_

He was filled with so much joy and hope that a couple of seconds of just hearing his voice had Aziraphale weeping through the night. The angel feared that it would go on until Araquiel and Algaz came into his room, so he made sure to get himself together and kept that memory under lock and key before the punishment began again.

The angel was sure another attempt was imminent. So instead of meditating here, outside of the house, within the calmness of the fields and the gentle caress of the cold breeze around him, Aziraphale rested. That link will last, he’ll make sure of it, even if it takes all his stored strength to do it.

***********************************************

Anathema woke to a quiet room in the middle of the night, the ceiling and the walls illuminated by the silver light of the moon coming in through the shutters. She lay in bed for a moment, listening to the even breathing of Newt beside her. 

Crowley insisted that they retire in Aziraphale’s rarely used flat above the bookshop while he ensconced himself in the backroom. Though their exhaustion welcomed the thought of getting some semblance of home comfort, a small part of her was hesitant. _He’s punishing himself for something he didn’t do._ With the progress they’ve been getting so far, that wouldn’t help at all. _Right, time to be a friend to a stubborn demon. My mother will love this._

As quietly as she could manage, Anathema headed downstairs and to the kitchenette off the other side of the bookshop, prepared two steaming mugs of chamomile tea, then made her way towards the backroom. She saw Crowley sitting on a long couch with his back against the arm, knees drawn close to his chest, fingers fidgeting with the angel’s ring while staring blankly at the wall. _The blood tracks are still there_ , she thought as she interrupted his stupor by handing him one of the mugs.

She sat on the other side of the couch, copying Crowley’s position so that he’s forced to face her instead of the bloodied wall. “You know, the clutter is very surprising,” she said, taking her first sip of the calming tea. “I didn’t think he’d be more disorganised than you.” 

He gave her a sombre smile before taking a sip of his tea. “That’s on you for assuming that I’m the messier one. Aziraphale’s a bit of a hoarder, if that’s not obvious enough. I’ve been telling him that just because there’s free space doesn’t mean it needs to be filled in. But try talking him out of getting even more rare editions. You’d have more luck averting another Apocalypse,” he said while looking fondly around the space.

A silence that teetered between awkward and comfortable was wedging a space between them - thankfully it’s slowly becoming more the latter than the former. Anathema observed him. His protective grip on the small ring on his right hand, the out of focus stare she’s getting, and indeed the way he spoke about Aziraphale. “You talk about him wistfully. Like he’s only a memory,” she moved close to him and gave his knee a gentle pat. “He’s not, Crowley.”

The demon took another tentative sip. “I know...I thought he died once, you know. For good. And I wasn’t there, too, when it happened. This whole place was burning to the ground and the first thing I did was ramble in a pub about why I fell,” he said with an uneasy chuckle. “I think there’s just a little of that grief leftover. I just need to get through it until I’ve run out.”

Anathema nodded in understanding, but she couldn't help but think how human this is. Feeling guilty for something you didn’t see coming or because you had assumed another progression of events. Ruminating on it as if that is what you owe them, but really it’s an effort to grasp on the ‘what ifs’ and to continue wallowing in the guilt until, suddenly, it’s gone. Then you either move on or you plateau. _Is it because they’ve been here for a long time or are humans and supernatural beings just wired the same way?_

“There was a second book,” she said without preamble. “Prophecies from Agnes Nutter. There’s another one and I burned it.”

A slew of emotions crossed his face, from puzzled, to comprehension, to understandable frustration, until finally settling on acquiescence. “Not gonna lie, that would’ve been helpful.”

She dipped her head from unease and covered her face with her hands, “I know, I know. Honestly, I’ve been thinking about that since we started. If I hadn’t burned it, we’d have a guide, or some sort of shortcut. The angel would probably be here days ago...I think it’s just me. You know, I lost that book to you guys when we were trying to stop Armageddon. It feels like the universe just doesn’t want to give me an easy way out. Just wants to tease me.”

“Well, where’s the fun in shortcuts?” Crowley gave her a comforting smile. “Besides, how would you know it isn’t just because celestial beings are mucking about?”

“Then I’d like to talk to the manager because I don’t appreciate having lucked out when it’s you guys wreaking havoc.” They shared a laugh, both genuinely feeling the tension start easing its way out of their system for the first time in weeks. 

Despite being the human between the two of them, growing up surrounded with more Delphic-esoteric traditions meant she’s more of an observer rather than a participant in the world. Both demon and angel have probably had more human experiences, mingling with society for millennia and witnessing its movement over time. But for Anathema, the seclusion was more self-imposed, because who would believe her when she said she’s a descendant of a witch destined to stop Armageddon? Who would want to be her friend if she started taking out dowsing rods to play with? _Better to shut them out than be rejected._

“You know what’s weird? I feel bad about it, but I don’t actually regret it,” she said.

Crowley looked at her amused. “You didn’t know how I was going to take it. I was ready to be angry, if I’m honest, having the book could’ve made a huge difference. I had to calm myself down, but I was about to explode on you,” he said. “So why mention it as if you do regret it?”

Anathema looked away, “Every time we end a session, you always do the same thing. Do you know that? You’d always go here, not just to be alone, but you stare at those blood tracks as if you’ve put them there...I guess, I just think that you needed to know and that I owe you an explanation somehow.”

He let out a slow sigh, “‘Preciate the sentiment. The angel’s probably rubbed off on me, but...I’m not the one who grew up with the weight of prophetic destiny hanging over my head. _I’m_ what you find in prophecies. So, I get it.”

“You’re being really nice about this.”

“Stop it or I’ll take it back, witch.”

Most things aren’t just mere coincidences. The concept of synchronicity states that certain events may seem unrelated to each other at first, but they are, in fact, meaningfully connected. Her experience with synchronicity may have been limited to drawing oracle cards or picking the right day to do her errands when the sun’s out and there are less people, but her belief that things fall into place no matter how random they may appear is as strong as her resolve to do whatever she set her mind to. _Synchronicity with a clear goal to manifest._

Her decision not to be dictated by Agnes Nutter led her to this moment. If there’s something more about the situation beyond helping out a demon find his angelic partner then, well, she’s going to have to put her full trust in synchronicity and hope that they can figure it out before it's too late.

***********************************************

“I don’t get paid enough for all this overtime!”

“Hastur, if you don’t shut up you’re doing desk work for 100 years.” Beelzebub sat stiffly on their throne, Hastur and Dagon stood on either side of them. “Besides, your _payment_ is not getting punished by doing as you’re told. I suggest you keep those complaints to yourself or I’m going to see to it that _he_ knows what’s on your mind.”

“Whose mind are we talking about?” 

Algaz entered in a dark red button-up coat with a standing collar and a cream-coloured shirt that completely contrasted his dark ensemble. All these complement his silver-metallic skin and ghostly emerald eyes. Not quite his true form, but an imposing figure, still - yes, remonstrances will not end well when this one hears it.

If Crowley had been considered too theatrical by demonic standards, Algaz probably created a new tier for the dramatics. Each time he has to report to Beelzebub, he requests for a full audience, with the low-level dukes that have business on Earth also in attendance. Sure they’ve done this before with Crowley, but never this frequently and only for priority assignments. This was either an intimidation tactic or he’s taking the piss - whatever it was, Beelzebub is over it. Hastur and Dagon need to get on their boat or both will end up drowning in their own mulched bodies.

“I’ve got news,” he said excitedly, looking out at the small crowd watching from behind Beelzebub’s throne. “We’ve got a warrior-angel in our midst!”

“Really? One of the Authorities as an agent of Earth?” they asked in an unaffected tone.

“Yeah, never thought Heaven had it in them to send one who’s more iron-fisted,” Algaz laughed.

Beelzebub knew this, of course, because Gabriel just wouldn’t shut up about it. Not only has this angel volunteered, but she did so in one of Heaven’s quarterly assemblies, in front of all the hierarchies with an impassioned speech about responsibilities and order. _All spectacle and flourish. These two would get along._

Mounting whispers from the various demons behind them started. “Oh will, you shut up!” Hastur shouted and then turned toward Algaz. “What’s so special about this angel anyway? _You’re_ a demon-knight, you should be able to handle her.” 

Beelzebub smacked him at the back of his head as hard as they can manage without losing too much composure. It wouldn’t do for Algaz to assume that they can’t control their own subordinates. They're already up against the wall ordering around one of the C-suite demons, now they have numskulls who can’t put their heads down to deal with. 

He grinned, sharp teeth making him look even more sinister. “Well, you’re not wrong there, Duke Hastur. I guess we’re just lucky then, aren’t we?” He started moving around the room, “Can you imagine being so unprepared for the presence of a war captain? Ooh, I can’t even begin to think how top management will react. But it’s a good thing Beelzebub had the foresight and assigned _me_ instead of any of you lot.”

“Alright, stop it,” Beelzebub eyed Hastur before he started to quibble. “Is that all, Algaz?”

“Hmm, not quite,” he turned to face the throne again and had a moment to observe the group. “I have reason to believe that Heaven is organising itself to move against Hell.”

Dagon snorted, “That’s why you’re there. You’re supposed to be thwartin’ ‘im. It’s been like that fo’ ages.”

“Hmm," the demon tilted his head and looked at both Hastur and Dagon with a lark smile he's not even hiding. "I’m sorry, do you take counsel from them? No offense, but they’re quite...” Algaz knocked on his head a few times.

Beelzebub smirked, “All Earth assignments, unfortunately, go through these two idiots. Dealing with them is what you signed up for." 

They stood from their throne and gestured for Algaz to follow them out the room. Once a safe distance from everyone else, Beelzebub turned and snapped at him, “I know what you’re doing, and you’re not going to make a scene in there. Are you trying to incite panic? What do you think will come out of you announcing that Heaven might be moving against us? What’s your proof?”

Algaz raised an eyebrow, probably deciding whether he should be impressed or annoyed. He’s settled on something, that’s for sure, and it seemed in favour of Beelzebub at least because he explained in a more contrite tone and yet still buzzing with eagerness, “That was a bit reckless, wasn’t it? I _was_ hoping to get them all riled up. But it seems you’re the only one who picked up on it, anyway.”

“Proof, Algaz! Their whole lot is all about following the Plan to the word, and the cancelled apocalypse has basically rendered all that they’ve understood about it null and void. So what makes you think Heaven is preparing to fight us again?”

“It’s the humans,” he replied. 

“What about the humans?"

In the empty hall, the Knight Spectre crowded them up the wall and eyed them intently. Beelzebub tried to stand their ground, but spouting off was different from being openly belligerent, so they had no choice but to be pliant. With their back fully pressed, they’re like a cornered prey waiting for the predator to stop playing with its food and pounce. He leaned in ever closer to their ear and whispered, “I think Heaven is doing something to them and we'll likely take the blame for it? How do you think God will react if She finds out something bad has happened to Her favoured children?”

Algaz pulled back, a wide grin already plastered on his face as he transformed into his human corporation, “That’s it! That’s the news, you can do with it what you want, but I’m sure I’ll have more to report by next week. Until then, I’ll see you next meeting...Let’s keep it to ourselves this time, that room makes you stupider by the minute," then he sauntered down the hall without looking back.

Beelzebub stared at the walking demon, wishing very hard he’d feel actual daggers sticking to his back. More than just the implication that Heaven was gearing up for a war Hell won’t be prepared for, if it were real, Gabriel hasn’t said anything about this in any of their meetings. They have both started sharing the general pulse in their respective realms. Circumstances being as fragile as they still are, they need to know how they can maintain balance on Earth while taking the necessary steps to respond to any unwarranted actions as a consequence of their agents’ rebellions, should it happen. 

_Of course, if they_ are _preparing for war, it’d make sense that Gabriel will be mum about it. He’s still their loyal servant after all..._

The past year has been full of revelations, some of which has completely shaken how Beelzebub processes things. There was a time when they, like most of Hell, presumed all the angels are beings of false positivity and toxic goodness, following each other blindly without taking the time to really scrutinise what they’re doing. But that isn’t the case, Beelzebub has started to learn. Like the humans, and indeed like the demons, the celestial city is as individualistic and as diverse as they come. This doesn’t make them unpredictable because each one is still acting within the purposes for which they were made, but dangerous because in any diverse community, there are extreme personalities to deal with. 

Gabriel is an extreme personality - he’ll work tirelessly to ensure Her creation moves toward the direction She intended for them. Sure, his interpretation of the Divine Plan may have meandered from what it actually is, and yes the archangel has got an ego problem, but that doesn’t make him dangerous. And it's not as if Hell had it right all along.

 _But there’s that Authority._ They don’t know much about the angel beyond Gabriel’s grousing, but they can start inferring from facts they know about her rank. She comes from the most righteous of the hierarchies, designed not to be a guardian or to carry out any mission or judgement, but built as a deadly warrior meant to engage Hell’s own warriors and any abomination that will harm humanity. 

Those things alone make her dangerous. _If there’s anything I’ve learnt from Earth, righteousness isn’t necessarily good. It’s much safer to assume she’s a threat, for now._

“How much do I trust Gabriel?” they asked. Their gut tells them Gabriel doesn’t know anything about this, which would mean it would be in everyone’s best interest if they can figure this out together. _But I’ve been wrong before..._

Time for Hastur and Dagon to prove they’re not total idiots after all.

***********************************************

“Aha!” Haj’s triumphant figure popped out from behind one of the bookshelves, a look of satisfaction on his face. “When my family immigrated here,” he said, “One of the things they brought with them was my great grandmother’s recipe book. They had deep provincial roots, so traditional, that meant my mother, being first born, inherited it. The most treasured item.”

He tucked the book under his armpit, quickly walked toward two full paper bags just by the front door, and carried it towards the small kitchenette. 

“Really? What does the second born get?” Newt asked as he follows Haj, Anathema and Crowley close at his heels. 

“Well, I think mum mentioned _tita_ getting a wooden rosary made by our great grandfather as a gift. I don’t really know much. My sister and I were born here, so we don’t get to meet the extended family beyond video calls,” he answered.

They watch as the boy excitedly pulled out his groceries - various vegetables, a medium-sized watermelon, and what looked like beef short ribs filling up the small counter. “So what are you making?” Anathema asked.

“ _We’re_ making a dish called _Sinigang_. It’s tamarind soup, basically. Good for when you’re sick or if it’s cold. Whenever we ask my mum to cook this, it would take her a couple of days to source the ingredients to make sure the taste is just right. ‘Close to home,’ she says. It’s always a treat when she picks a food recipe from that book. I guess, I just figured we need a treat ourselves.”

Crowley walked over the counter and eyed all the ingredients, “Right, and the book you took from the shelf?”

“Oh! Obviously, I don’t have the recipe book with me, and my mum will never let me borrow it anyway, so I was hoping your friend has a cookbook, at least.” Haj lifted the book up excitedly, “And he does! It's one of the older cookbooks so I'm sure this'll be close to our version of the dish. Remind me to cook for Aziraphale when we finally get him here, for letting me borrow it,” Haj said.

“Letting you borrow? He’s not here to give you permission?”

Haj nodded, “Yes, but you’re not taking it from me, that’s as good a permission as I’m going to get.”

Before Crowley can argue further, Anathema shushed him and threw one of the aprons at him, “Come on, demon. We’ve got dinner to cook.”

In companionable silence, all four focused on the task at hand with Haj giving out instructions every now and then. The tamarind in a smaller pot and the short ribs in a larger pot are left to boil while Newt diced up the watermelon in smaller cubes, Crowley cut the string beans and onions, Anathema cleaned the spinach, and Haj dutifully removed the particles that float on top as the pot with the meat simmered. 

Once the beef was tender, Haj added the onion, spinach, string beans, and tamarind broth into the larger pot. After around 15 minutes, he added the diced watermelon and instructed all three of them to cook rice.

“No, Crowley, that’s too much water, use your ring finger!”

“I don’t know what you mean by using my ring finger!” Crowley complained.

“Put your ring finger on top of the rice grains, then use the line on your second knuckle to measure the amount of water you need to cook it with. Have you even cleaned the rice?” Haj said exasperated.

“Anathema was supposed to do it,” Crowley pointed at her accusingly.

Haj added a bit of salt and pepper to the pot, reduced the heat, and took over cooking the rice, but demanding all of them to watch him do it. “I refuse to let you all out of this kitchen without knowing how to cook rice.”

After checking if the vegetables have been cooked through, Haj transferred it in one of the glass serving bowls while Newt does the same with the rice. Anathema and Crowley proceeded to carry the small table out of the kitchenette and into the bookshop’s foyer, and then started setting up plates and utensils for all of them. 

“Thanks for dinner, Haj,” Anathema said when they finally settle down. 

“We all made this dinner. No matter how rubbish you were in there,” Haj said with a wink.

They took the first sip of the soup at the same time, enjoying the heat that lines from their throat and to their stomach. Savouring the combination of sourness from the tamarind and the sweetness from the watermelon. Haj told them to eat it with the steaming rice, “Asians almost always eat everything with rice, and this dish deserves the full genuine experience.” The tender beef slid off the bone so easily - putting some of the soup on the rice, each one takes a spoonful of it with a bit of the watermelon, vegetables, and meat. 

“Wow, _that_ is amazing,” Newt said. Haj can only wiggle with giddiness in response.

Everyone ate two, three more helpings of the _Sinigang_ and rice until none of them can get up from their seat anymore. “You said something curious a while ago, Haj,” Crowley said, watching Newt pour green tea on each of their cups to help with the digestion. “What do you mean by ‘picks a food recipe from that book’? Are they not all recipes for food?”

The boy took a long sip of his tea before responding, “Ah yeah, well, my great grandparents are apparently _manggagamot_ in their province. Folk healers. So they have different concoctions in that book like medicine made with herbs, plants, and roots.” 

“Oh, they’re herbalists?” Anathema asked.

Haj thinks about it for a bit, “There are different facets to a folk healer in the Philippines. My ancestors’ specialty is herbs, yes. But they also dabble in _hilot_ or healing through massage. From the little that I know, there are sinister healers, apparently. So they also have these mixes for protection and such written in that book.”

Each night they spent in the bookshop, Haj is reminded of the cosy, homey feeling of his time when he visited his mum’s family house in the province years back. The same yellow glow within a setting that looks both stuck in time and yet somehow pretty much flowing with it. Perhaps that was what made him do all of this. He’s had so few opportunities to learn about his family’s life before moving to London, and while his mother was very enthusiastic about the food, she drew the line on everything else.

They stood and started cleaning up - Haj and Newt washed the dishes, while Crowley and Anathema carried the table back in the kitchenette and swept the bookshop floor. After all’s been taken cared of, he noticed Crowley retreating yet again in the backroom with a wine bottle in hand. This time not with his usual sombre gait, but with a more relaxed stride. Haj smiled, watching the demon disappear into the room. _Sinigang, you’ve done it again_.

Progress has been slow and the pressure to keep pushing has everybody all wired up. Even Newt who only had to watch and wait during each session was distressed. Not to mention, that subtle yet insistent nudging at the back of his head demanding attention is getting a little harder to ignore. It’s moments like this when he wished he has family to ask questions to so he can get answers rooted in his own history. _Anathema’s here, though. I’m sure my ancestors will forgive me if I mix traditions a bit_.

“At least we have the food to comfort us.” 

Haj climbed the stairs to the angel’s flat and situated himself on the couch. He closed his eyes and began calming himself for his evening meditations, channeling that comfort and satisfaction from their dinner. 

_That’s enough food-based existential crisis. I wonder what we're in for tomorrow?_


	7. The will of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with art from [@lonicera.caprifolium](https://www.instagram.com/lonicera.caprifolium/)!

“30 minutes starts…now!”

Reeva took her sunglasses off and looked around the park picking a subject, until she finally zoned in on an old woman talking animatedly to her friend. The stylus briskly made contact with the tablet as she started her quick sketch. Lines taking shape, details coming in gradually, and the woman becoming more than just an outline. With a few minutes more still on the clock, she looked down on her drawing and started adding more minute details, making sure to include the odd colour effusion within and around her. 

**BEEP!**

She quickly saved the image, turned off the alarm, and placed the sunglasses back on again.

By now, there were more than 20 images saved in a locked album in her tablet: drawings of random strangers that were meant to show off the colours rather than their likeness. She might as well adapt to her situation, Reeva thought, while working towards why it’s happening to her and what triggered it. So sticking to her original plan, Reeva started recording what she sees through speed sketches. 

The past few days, she’s observed that the colours were settling a bit, for lack of a better way of describing it. Instead of bright bursts, it’s softened somehow. Not dull, but more tolerable. Reeva found that she’s getting so used to it that there were days when the sunglasses weren’t even needed. However, the glitching was still there and that continued to disturb her - sunglasses masks that a little. She's just glad that while everyone has colour emanations, not all of them look like a system malfunction.

Within a folder named “Weird Shit That I See” were subfolders of the block and combination colours she has seen thus far. Honestly, she felt like she’s in one of those games with codes and puzzles you needed to solve by sussing out the connection between all the bits of information you’re getting. There’s nothing much to work with at the moment other than realising nine different colours kept repeating, some of which function more as base colours, and that not everyone has combination colours.

Whatever this meant, it’s more interesting now than it was weeks ago.

Of course, it’d be much better if she confides about this with someone so that she feels even less silly. _The amount of effort I’m putting into this is ridiculous. I need someone to pat me on the back even if they think I’m crazy._ That’s why she’s asked Charlie to meet her tonight. At her apartment so that she has the home advantage, and really it’s because she’s planning a whole presentation which would look even weirder if she did it in public. _Because nothing says I haven’t lost my mind than Powerpoint slides of stuff only_ I _can see._

In the matter of what she wanted to achieve with this endeavour, well, Reeva didn’t exactly have a goal in mind. Was it only just to prove she hasn’t gone off the bend? Maybe. When something unexplainable happens to a person, the natural reaction _is_ to make sense of things. _This is me making sense of things, right?_ But she couldn’t quite help but feel like there was some sort of endgame that hasn’t revealed itself to her yet. Much like how she plays video games, or indeed the way she went about her life, it’s all gut feeling and countless ‘who knows?’ shoulder shrugs.

_Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I? My hunches haven't failed me yet._

***********************************************

Araquiel called on the birds to her. Like the rest of the place, they’re here by her design. She had them flying around her as she walked the field, an unfamiliar trill but a welcome sound nonetheless. 

When God finished creating the Earth and looked upon the plans for Her children, She saw it fit to assign angels to execute very specific roles: to guard, to tend, and to engage. Guardians were meant to encourage Man to always choose to do good and protect them from the consequences of doing evil by constantly thwarting the opposition. A task made difficult because of freewill. 

Then there were the angels who bore messages from Heaven and have taken charge of Man’s needs. Challenged only by Man’s vulnerability to dark influences that intend to make them greedy and to cloud their mind so that they fail to understand things correctly.

Last were the knights. Their military prowess were to be used in engaging threats, and if needed, enforce martial law, for the good of humanity. Throughout millennia, they have coordinated with the guardians and the shepherds by exterminating hostile creatures ceaselessly, even if it meant their own destruction. _We have punished and killed one of our ilk for the mission to move forward. An errant angel will not undo that work._

It’s her belief that the end of the world was more like a transcendence. God has once told them that Man will one day be welcomed to Heaven. But there’s a process that they need to go through, an evolution that needed to happen right before the day of judgement. 

_And humanity is at their zenith. The mission - the Plan - should’ve been fulfilled by now._

Algaz appeared from the far end of the field, pointed towards the sky, and immediately took flight. Rolling her eyes, Araquiel shooed the birds away, unfurled her great eagle-like wings and followed. “I never thought I was going to be _that_ type, but I love iced coffee. Especially the really sweet ones.” He took a long sip from a large plastic cup, “ I had them pump lots of caramels and vanillas in this one. Have you tried this, Araquiel?”

The angel pulled a repulsed face, completely put off by the idea, “Is that even coffee anymore or is that just syrups with water?” He just shrugged and continued drinking his sugar abomination. 

“What did your underlings find out?” she asked.

“Well, you’d be happy to know that your “put it in their food” trick worked. Most of them had a reaction. Even better than the ones we did here,” he replied.

While this collaboration was more to fulfill their individual goals, there had to be a level of trust involved, no matter how miniscule it was. For this reason, Araquiel must relinquish some of the tasks for the demon to do. It shouldn’t be a problem, she thought. His objective was simple enough - get both sides fighting, which was easy to do since they didn’t get the chance to let loose tensions that have had plenty of time to brew. And hers was straightforward as well - to win for Heaven complete domination of Earth, and in turn fast forward humanity’s movement to the next stage. A bit more complicated to accomplish, but they're getting some headway as far as she’s concerned.

However different their intentions, though, it still required careful planning and unfortunately their inevitable collusion. Besides, if the demon did decide to break faith, he wouldn’t be the first adversary of equal strength that she had to deal with.

“That’s good. Have they catalogued these reactions? Physical changes? Mental? Even emotional?”

“Remember these are low-level. The more complex instructions make their head explode. Literally. We will have to do the actual indexing. But don’t worry, they were surprisingly detailed about what they saw.”

Araquiel closed her eyes and thought about her creation. The little flora and fauna around, and even the gentle current of the wind, all manifested because she willed it into existence in these private borders. In her heart, she thought if something were to go wrong in this place, she would be beyond enraged. _I can only imagine what Mother is feeling since Her children haven’t yet reached their potential according to Her plan._

“Very well,” she said. “Let’s get on that quickly so that we know what we’re working with. Things have been going well, but I reckon we can still move things faster.”

“Hmm. What of the Principality? How do you imagine he would react when he finds out about this?” Algaz asked.

She carefully descended with an odd grace from one known for brutishness, the demon following behind her. “The problem isn’t in convincing him. I believe no matter how much we flagellate the stubborn angel, he’s going to keep insisting on this arrogant and stupid behaviour.”

“What’s the plan, then?” the demon asked.

Araquiel called the birds to her again, “Let’s continue his scourges. I might not have gotten the atonement I was hoping for, but there’s still the matter of punishing him for his insubordination.”

A slight upward quirk appeared on Algaz’s lips, “Sure. And then what?”

“Then I want him to see. I will not make an effort to explain myself, he doesn’t need to understand why. I just want him to look at what he’s forced me to do,” she said.

The demon laughed softly which mixes with the melodic chirping of the birds that Araquiel realised she hated the sound of very much. “We should be well rested and ready for tomorrow, don’t you think? Perhaps consider moving Aziraphale’s session a few hours so we can review your findings early.”

Algaz just grunted, thoughtlessly agreeing to another one of her plans, and then proceeded to sip noisily at his iced coffee.

***********************************************

Crowley was feeling very positive today. 

Something about the way Haj woke up with a crick in his neck and how Newt spilled very hot tea on himself made him feel quite hopeful. These may or may not have directly resulted from something he did earlier while everyone was asleep, but who cares? He’s still got it.

He may not seem like a positive thinker - Aziraphale has often complained about his penchant to derail his alacrity with being pragmatic - but he _is_ capable of it. Between him and Aziraphale, he was the first one to feel optimistic about cancelling Armageddon, the angel just warmed up to it. _Well, I was also the first one to admit defeat._

But he’s now remembering how Aziraphale would go out of his way to justify why they should be feeling positive that things will turn out alright. In fact, there were times when he’d intentionally be the ‘devil’s advocate’ and list all the ways anything can go wrong just to see what the angel will do to change his mind. 

He’s reminded of those moments because the past few days, his three companions have been trying to cheer him up. Crowley wouldn’t show it, of course, but he did appreciate it. And it’s for this reason why he’s limbering up at the bookshop’s open area, stretching, doing lunges, and even jogging in place - getting ready for today’s attempt.

Coming into the circle, he sat in between Haj and Anathema with his glasses already off. “Remember, we’ve learnt that you can influence the memory we end up in by having you focus on a shared experience. But try to choose one you both felt strongly about so Haj and I can see which irrelevant emotions to soothe and which ones to riot,” Anathema instructed.

He’s got a strong feeling that the last instruction is code for ‘stop choosing memories where you’re both angry or gloomy’. Today’s goal was to keep that line open longer this time so he can actually talk to Aziraphale, which meant he needed to come into this fully understanding that the emotions he brought into the exercise greatly affected it. 

Taking a deep breath, Crowley shut his eyes and began rifling through his happy memories with the angel. 

Funny how miserable experiences came so easily while it’s quite difficult to think of happier ones. It’s that innate survival instinct that makes you remember the bad ones better so that you can avoid it in the future. However helpful that was, remembering the good ones so that you can build upon it to the point of contentment should also be considered a preservation instinct, he thought. _So that we don’t take it for granted._

Brows knitted in concentration, he ended up bringing them to Babylon. 

The fabled Hanging Gardens were a real place, just exaggerated a bit by archaeologists looking for depth when there was none. It wasn’t built as a gift to the wife of the Babylonian King, but simply as a place of peace made for anyone who wanted to get away. 

Standing near the River Euphrates, the high stone terraces were filled with large trees and countless colourful flowers that made it seem like the garden was indeed an intricate drapery hanging over stone. 

Aziraphale and Crowley were assigned here to do minor tasks, with explicit instructions not to interfere in the siege and let the events play out organically. There were other angels and demons abroad anyway, so both didn't even pretend they were put out by it. With nothing paramount to do, they kept a careful eye out and agreed to meet every other night at the gardens and get extremely wasted. Or on some nights - his most favourite nights - they’d just talk.

_I was still called Crawly at this time._

In this memory, he can see Aziraphale standing near a large water feature, the moon’s light bouncing off of its surface to reflect on the angel’s face. This was one of those rare moments when their lack of involvement in the bigger things made their work less demanding. As they approached, Crowley started to feel it - the calm, relief, contentment. There really was something to be said about the joy of complete satisfaction. 

Ignoring the few spectres walking around, he let his mind drift toward the Principality, reaching out again and covering him in a sort of mental embrace. He could already sense Anathema and Haj enflame his emotions, with the former making sure it’s bound and directed to a single target and the latter ensuring the increase was more gradual so that he didn’t get overwhelmed by it.

Once they felt the barrier cave in enough that there’s a small opening Crowley could get into, he quickly started looking for any sign the angel was on the other side. “Aziraphale, are you there? Can you hear me?”

All three were straining to keep that crack open while making sure the telepathic press didn’t leak. He continued to call out to the angel. The shaking of his physical body distracted him from the task, until he felt the familiar, warm essence of the angel. It’s weak and barely perceptible right after that initial tug, but he chased after it. Crowley knew he’s already screaming in the physical world and that fueled him even further.

With a final push, he felt the tendrils of his energy latch on and grip the angel’s tightly. “Aziraphale, please, can you hear me?”

**_“Crowley? Is that really you?”_ **

A palpable relief washed over them, “Yes, angel, it’s really me.” Crowley tried to shape his energy into his image but realised he’s too exhausted for the effort. “Hey, Aziraphale.”

**_“Oh, my dear. You wily old serpent, I knew you could do it!”_ **

“When have I ever failed in finding you, right?”

**_“Yes, I suppose you’re right. You keep running to my aid. Must be tired of it by now.”_ **

He knew it’s a joke, but he felt compelled to argue just in case he really thought he’s become a burden, “Don’t be silly. I never minded it.” Now that a connection has been made, he can feel their energies trying to strengthen that link, with Crowley hoping it’ll make it easier the next time. “Do you know where you are? Just tell me where, angel, and I’ll go there immediately.”

**_“No, I don’t know where this place is. But it might still be on Earth if we’re able to connect telepathically.”_ **

The moment their connection has melded together, Crowley sensed what the angel is feeling at the moment. There’s that relief the demon was so happy to have brought him, but then there’s weariness, pain, so much pain flooding his very being that Haj and Anathema quickly stepped in to try to soothe both of them. “Angel, what have they done to you?”

**_“I’m sorry you felt that. I’ll try to rein that in.”_ **

“Screw what I’m feeling, Aziraphale! What are they doing?”

**_“...I’m being punished until I’m deemed clean.”_ **

“Is this Gabriel? I’m going to find that purple-eyed bastard---”

**_“Not Gabriel. I don’t think Heaven even knows about this…”_ **

“What do you mean?”

His replies were becoming more clipped, **_“Crowley, listen, I think something is about to happen on Earth again. I will try to glean as much information as I can. All I know is that an angel and a demon from the upper circles are working together.”_ **

“Aziraphale...No, I need to find you first. You don’t— it’s the pain, angel, I need to get you away from it.”

**_“It’s only pain, Crowley. I can still take it. There are more urgent matters at hand—”_ **

“Will you just— Look, we can both find out about their plans, here, together. Please, just let me take you away this time!”

It took a couple of beats before the angel’s reply came in. **_“My dear, believe me, I want nothing more than to come to you. But we both know we need to take advantage of my being here if we’re to find out what we’re up against.”_ **

Desperately, Crowley said, “We’re retired, angel. We don’t need to think about these things anymore. Let Heaven and Hell figure this out on their own. Just, please…”

**_“I’m sorry I’ve upset you, but...Being on our side also means choosing the humans. And I believe they’re in danger.”_ **

The demon knew nothing he says will convince the angel to abandon this self-sacrificing plan. “Alright, okay. I really hate it when you’re being stubborn.” He heard the angel chuckle, and that lifted the mood a bit. “But the moment I think _you’re_ in danger, I’ll get you out, is that understood?”

**_“Completely. I always knew you have a soft spot for them.”_ **

“Hush now, I’ve got an aloof reputation to maintain.”

**_“Of course...Dear, Crowley, you don’t know how happy I am to finally hear you.”_ **

Crowley felt the connection waning - not disconnected, just slowly dwindling- and knew time’s almost up. “I promise to find information here as well so we can get this done quickly.”

**_“Sounds like a plan. Be safe, my dear.”_ **

Once he started being hyper aware of his physical body, the line has been temporarily turned off. Crowley could still sense the link at the back of his head, feeling comforted by it, as he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Now with renewed purpose, he stood and gestured for everyone to follow him to the back room.

“Right, buckle up everyone, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***********************************************

Charlie sauntered into the apartment looking like an eccentric rock star who got lost midway going to his next gig, with his shearling black coat, loose-fit white blouse and tight-fitting leather pants. He sprawled on the couch, arms and legs spread out in a careless way. “Ooh, something smells good!”

“Yeah, I just tried cooking my nan’s spicy chicken stew recipe.” Reeva finished setting up the small dining table just off the side of her living room and beckoned for her friend to take a seat. “I bought apple pie and ice cream for dessert. We can ala mode it later.”

The smell of spices from the stew filled the space as he lifted the lid from the pot, and the coconut rice right beside it was a sweet and aromatic addition to the delectable fragrance. “Either you’re in real trouble or you’re fattening me up to push in your oven later. I’m so excited to know which one.” he teased.

“All I know is that after this, I’ll have meat that’s good for a month. I wonder what your attitude tastes like as a jerky,” she replied.

Dinner was a casual affair, with Reeva trying to avoid giving any hints of what they’re going to talk about later. It’s interesting that she’s not nervous about tonight since she’s sure no matter how crazy she’ll sound, Charlie will try his very best to spin and accept whatever makes sense to his mental ecosystem. No, her concern was more about her own mental environment. After dessert, she pushed him towards the living room, shoved a chilled bottle of wine in his hands, and made quick work of clearing and cleaning.

Reeva then pulled out the portable projector she used for art conventions from under the couch, connected her desktop to it, and then turned down the lights. “So, before we start, a couple of things. Everything I’m about to tell you is real. I haven’t lost my mind. I’ll still consider you my friend even if you think that I have. And I’ll definitely stalk you in all your gigs if you do decide to cut ties with me.”

“Lovely disclaimer. I’ll bear that in mind.” Charlie leaned back on the couch, crossed his legs, and made himself comfortable. “Now, what have you gotten yourself into.”

She took one last swig of the wine and clicked to the first slide. “Okay. Let’s start with the base colours…”

It took her a good 30 minutes explaining the base colours, the block colours, and the various combinations she’s already seen, complemented by her speed drawings. In all that time, Charlie didn’t move an inch, not even to take a sip of his drink. “Ah, hmm, can you go back to the first couple of slides? There - the one with the base colours. So what you’re saying is that most people just have this but that there are others with the reds, blues, and yellows, right?”

Surprised by the interest, it took Reeva a while to process the question, “Oh, yeah. Everyone has a base of white, black, or grey. But then there are others that have like an added layer made of a different colour.” She saw his tell-tale mannerism of tugging his ear and looking down at the floor while thinking, pondering this information. 

“So more look like an inner shell and then an outer shell, like some sort of colour field coming out of people,” he said matter of factly, pointing at some of the drawings in front of them. 

“I have to be honest, you taking this in stride is worrying me more than if you’ve just told me I've gone mad,” she said.

“Well, do give me some credit, dear,” he said with a wink.

He stood up, grabs the clicker from Reeva and examined the illustrations more closely. “For some of them, the second layer of colour is very faint. Is that intentional? Does that mean anything?”

“That’s just how I saw it. I don’t actually know what all of these means. All I know is it started with just a few people until one day everyone has it.”

“I think I know what you’re seeing but I’m not sure that this is it exactly, you know what I mean?” he said, fishing out his phone from his pocket and started typing. “See - it’s not the exact same thing you’re seeing, but it’s the closest explanation to what it is.”

Auras, it said on the screen - an energy field surrounding the body of any living creature that’s considered an essential part of their being. He clicked on the images and showed her the various diagrams of auras, each one specifying what emotional, mental, and spiritual characteristics were attributed to a certain colour. “I don’t know, this might be it? But there’s none of the visuals that I’ve been seeing so…”

“Why don’t we follow one of them?” Charlie asked.

“Sorry, you’re suggesting we go around London following strangers just for this?”

“Yes,” he confirmed enthusiastically. “Oh come on, it’s going to be an adventure!”

She already went through the trouble of illustrating them, might as well catalogue this properly right? In any game there’s always a danger of leaving a side mission only half-way done because you’ll never know which ones affected the main storyline and which ones just give you nifty items to use. For days, this felt like both a side mission and a main storyline objective because she doesn’t know how this was relevant to her somehow, but there’s a nagging feeling that it’ll eventually be important.

Charlie interrupted her thoughts and asked quietly, “What colours do I have?”

Reeva grabs the bottle of wine from the floor beside the couch and poured for them both, “Base grey with a red layer.”

He grinned wide and takes a sip from his wine, “That sounds rad.”


	8. One short day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might go back to edit some sections - the brain cell is just not cooperating. I hope it isn't too awful.

The eternal night sky and the bone-chilling air greeted them as they stepped out of the complex connecting Hell to Earth. 

Beelzebub had spent the whole day poring over the documents Algaz had been sending diligently. For all his annoying attitude and general menace, the Great Duke was a model employee. What worried them, however, are the contents of the demon’s reports about suspicious activities on Earth. He’s adamant that the higher circles of Heaven are looking for an excuse to incite anger within its choirs to justify an assault on Hell. 

As they walked the short bridge away from the Earth Sector, the droning sound turned into the bustling noise of a city centre. Just like Heaven, Hell was divided into sections, four main regions separated by a wide chasm that made it seem like each one was floating. To navigate to the Upper or Lower Dominances from the Earth region, one must go through the Central Dominance and cross the great bridges that connected them from it. Or one may choose to travel by any of the ferries stationed at the district ports - the inspiration for the mythical River Styx, the boats navigated by Hell’s ferry men are the only ones able to stay on the surface of the wide abyss in between regions.

The Central Dominance was comparable to a metropolis. Their architects designed this to house most of the administrative offices, the less-favoured demons, and the neophytes. This was where one can truly experience the claustrophobic nature of Hell. From its crowded avenues to mismatched buildings packed closely together, wanderers will have to learn how to carve their own space within the oppressive place. 

Beelzebub winded their way into its busy streets contemplating their next move. Algaz described something like an illness that had put quite a number of humans at a troubling weakened state. While some of them have recovered, although not at their fullest health, there were those whose conditions have taken a turn for the worse. He’s not being exact as to what “worse” entails, but in one of his reports, Algaz noted humans changing appearance, like a physical transformation that was “ _not too extreme, but still quite worrying_.”

_A little concerning if a demon like him is bothered._

They reached one of the district ports crammed with ferrymen and their barkers calling passengers to board. Torturers, interrogators, and demon-guards leading new souls were getting on boats that will travel to the Lower Dominance, where the Nine Circles of Punishment were located. 

Some of these new souls will one day be Hell’s labourers, those who have shown potential for silent subservience - bondservants that helped Hell with the upkeep of their created realm. Maybe one day they will be given low-level abilities for certain tasks, but for now, they should expect the situation to get much worse, for the road to become Hell’s workers challenges any human idea of eternity.

Beelzebub walked past these to a quieter part of the port where the boats were more polished and the oarsmen were more refined. They settled on an empty vessel and immediately prompted the gondolier to take off, already looking forward to the privacy of their home.

An exclusive area, the Upper Dominance was where privileged demons like Beelzebub were given accommodations far from the wailing and grinding of teeth. 

Not all titled demons get to have their own keeps in the Upper Dominance, if they’re important enough not to be left in the Central Dominance, they were given apartments in buildings much like a condominium. But go further in and you’ll see the looming spires of stately homes, one of which is Beelzebub’s - an advantage of being one of the First Fallen who served in the Celestial War.

Crowley was one of the lucky demons with a middling title who was given their own manor, not only because he was First Fallen, and not even because of the reputation he’s made as an agent of Earth. It’s because he was the first to truly understand the false dichotomy being perpetuated in Hell and in Heaven. How some actions aren’t truly good or truly evil.

The kinds of thoughts that are dangerous to have in Hell. So they lavished him and made him live like the demons of the upper echelon in the hopes that he’s pushed these thoughts aside. But not only did he start asking about it as millennia went on, but he was able to experience it for himself. By consorting with the angel and doing each other’s tasks they have both learnt and confirmed that really, there’s not much that makes them different.

Only a few of them were allowed to know this, working with Heaven can sometimes be inevitable if they want to move things along on Earth. But Imagine if all ethereal and infernal beings found out that they are a reflection of each other after being taught that they were two complete extreme entities - everything can potentially fall apart. 

_Musings for a different time._

They haven’t done it in a long time, but Beelzebub planned mindful meditation tonight. Opposed to what some may believe, demons do practice silent reflection. These new demons think it a waste of time, but the Fallen of Heaven knew how useful it can be.

Called the Prince of Flies, Beelzebub had control of tyrants and commanded diseases in the Old Testament days. They were chief of the sin of pride, from which wells greed, jealousy, and envy. The fly became a symbol of their office because they were among the first to congregate around the dead. And they honestly just liked to think that those destroyed because they were too proud had a swarm of flies buzzing around them as Azrael harvested their souls.

These days, honorifics like that mean nothing. As far as temptations were concerned, Crowley had the right way of it: modern behaviours require a modern kind inveigling. However, it appeared the First Purveyor of Sin wasn’t the only one who adapted fast to changing times. Algaz had pretty much refined where Crowley was a little rough, if his data were to be fully believed. 

And that’s exactly why they thought it imperative to retreat to their mental space as they planned what to do next. A demon of almost equal footing suspecting an incursion wasn’t to be taken lightly. But Beelzebub simply didn’t like him, so whatever he says will be taken with a truck full of salt.

_They’re all noise. All of them just want to be the last person screaming._

Off to the side of the entrance to their keep was a door that led to a loggia, a wide space that Beelzebub reserved for contemplative times such as this. In the far distance they could just about see the towering roofs of the other keeps. Here was where they can pretend the floating, outlying lamps were stars and the endless night sky was a call to rest.

On a cushioned cleopatra chaise, they cross their legs under them and close their eyes to start the meditation. Right before getting lost in the exercise, they hear a buzzing. Beelzebub opened their eyes to see the swarm they sent out earlier for initial surveyance. At their nod, the flies formed a circle around their head and waited for the whirring of countless wings to sound concerted. Shutting their eyes again, they drifted to a state where their mind was open and clear.

“Right, what have you seen?”

***********************************************

The worst thing about being in a cult was the drab uniform. 

Michael and Uriel were both wearing a black cassock with an irritating stiff clerical collar. Gabriel had been very vague about what it was they’re supposed to be watching out for other than gathering intelligence on Hell in the off-chance they’re planning something over there that Heaven doesn’t know about. However, the Archangel was insistent that they handle this clandestinely and delicately. 

It’s why they now find themselves in one of the churches in the city, mingling with a small congregation of priests. “Michael, remind me again why you chose this place?” Uriel asked looking over the small table of refreshments right next to them. Most of the priests have started taking their seats on the empty pews of the small chapel - the angels decided they want to start their investigation by scouting the room and enjoying hot cup of coffee while doing it.

“This is a new church, not blessed yet. I think they even had a weekend fair or some such weeks ago. Our surveillance picked up activity here worth checking out,” Michael whispered, stirring into her paper cup, which is more milk than coffee at this point, with a flimsy wooden stick. 

There had been a time when a church would receive hallowed status almost as soon as the first brick of its foundation was laid. Any institution from any form of creed, really. Their Mother was wise in revealing Herself in ways Man could understand, which would mean differences in how She’s being depicted by different cultures. But like all human institutions, the church was rife with a corruption either of its own making or what it has allowed to seep in. God was reshaped and twisted to justify their cruelty with each other.

Heaven was perturbed. So instead of giving houses of worship instant consecrated status, they’ll be submitted for review first. Until then, they’re just another cult.

A priest comes out from a door at the far side of the altar, “Hello everyone, Father Thomas is ready to see you.”

Clerics from a few of the neighbouring small town chapels came ambling into the door with Michael and Uriel in tow. “Priests always have the same names. They’re all Johns, Jameses, Matthews, and Thomases,” Uriel muttered.

“Don’t forget the Peters and Pauls. It’s like every fifth child with those names was just drawn to frankincense and myrrh,” Michael added. They are led off of the room to a small, dimly lit bedchamber where a figure was lying still, covered by a duvet from head to foot. “What do you think this is?” she asked.

Before Uriel can reply, the priest that ushered them in removed the duvet to reveal who Michael assumed is the sickly form of Father Thomas. Blanched, cadaverous skin that looked like it's hanging on his flesh by sheer power of will. His red-rimmed eyes blinked truculently, looking at them with fevered stares. It is only when he started struggling that she noticed the straps around his ankles and wrists. “What have you done?” she heard Uriel exclaim.

One of the priests speaks up, too. “Did you call us here for an exorcism?”

“Do you have permission from the Vatican, Father Michael?” another chimed in.

“Everyone’s assuming this is demonic, Father Thomas might just need a doctor. Have you called one yet?” one more added.

The priest called Father Michael - because of course he’s called Michael - raised both hands to placate the group. “Please, everyone calm down.” He proceeded to completely take the duvet off Father Thomas, removed the straps, and swept a hand over his body as if he’s presenting butchered meat. “This isn’t an exorcism, of that you can be sure. But a miracle.”

As though prompted by his words, Father Thomas movedto sit up slowly, turning on his side first to anchor himself on one arm and then lifted himself up, groaning in pain as he does so until he’s fully upright. “Father Michael is right,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I wish to show you what I have been blessed with.”

With palms facing up, he raised both hands up to shoulder level and closed his eyes. Michael shuddered - she can feel a force moving in the room that she can’t quite understand, but knew that it’s coming from the priest in front of them. Suddenly, his hands were engulfed with fire. 

_No, he’s not on fire. He_ made _the fire._

Father Thomas played with his fire, controlling its heat intensity and the extent of its reach. All the other priests were mesmerised by its flame, following its movement with a mix of fear and awe. Both angels, however, have slowly retreated to the back of the group, feeling nothing but dread. 

Michael grabbed at Uriel’s arm holding it tight. Even as they made a hasty retreat. Then she heard her say it.

“Hellfire.” 

***********************************************

It’s in moments like this when Hastur wished he’s on consecrated ground burning to ash than filling his lungs with the smell of Catholicism. A combination of musty wood over incense, flowers, burnt out candles, statues, and old men. Indeed, a church wasn’t a place for demons _not_ because it’s supposed to be holy, but that it just stinks.

Beelzebub sent them out to source information, but wasn’t exactly forthcoming as to what kind they were supposed to be looking for. They just said to pick up on anything Heaven might be up to.

Visiting churches used to be part of their intelligence work. Their reasoning is if the angels are planning something, there’s a high possibility that holy institutions would be involved. Because how easy is it to have men in high positions, in a congregation that number to millions, do your bidding? How massive is the influence going to be that cascades within its ranks with just a whisper in the right person’s ear?

But true hallowed grounds were associated with the divine - once the people within it have desecrated that contract, well, it’s ripe for the picking. This was why demons can walk on some churches and why it hasn’t been a truly reliable source for hundreds of years. However, the lack of guidance in this mission and the strict instruction not to let anyone in Hell know about it made it rather impossible to use their normal channels. 

And that’s how they ended up sneaking into a small town church.

This one, while newly opened to the public, garnered much popularity in the local congregation because of its parish priest. Father Thomas was your typical, idealistic young priest - right out of the seminary with a mission to change the world one good deed at a time. He lured in a much younger crowd by being “in with the trends” during his sermons and quite hip programs like his on-going weekend markets. But recently, it appeared the priest has just disappeared.

Masses were being conducted by his curate, another younger clergyman who’s unfortunately of the same naive and overly enthusiastic demeanor as he was. 

Instead of using the entrance to the chapel, Hastur and Dagon opted to materialise in the priest’s inner chambers. Suspicious happenings that weren’t caused by Hell require equally dubious methods to solve anyway. And if this was done by Heaven, then invading this man’s privacy shouldn’t be the only nefarious thing they need to do just to tip the wickedness scale to their side again.

“Right, I’ll take charge of materialising both of us in there. You need to make sure we’re not going to be seen as soon as we get in, understand?” Hastur said.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve bloody told me tha’ hundred times 'lready. Let’s just get on with it,” Dagon replied.

They stop right in front at what would be Father Thomas’ bedroom window. To transport from one place to another, it’s easier for Hastur if he knew where he’s going so that he can just visualise the location and appear exactly at the spot he wanted to. 

For instances such as this, when he didn’t know the logistics of the place, having a port like the window made it easy. He just needed to conjure up an image of both of them passing through the window, and then it’s up to Dagon to cloak their presence. 

Concentrating, he started calling to mind their present state and imagining every molecule of their corporation changing form, turning them into the minutest particles. He then pushed them towards every gap he can manage to find on the window until he could sense they’re already inside the room. Hastur heard Dagon muttering under her breath - he didn’t exactly know how her abilities worked, all he knew is it’s not as simple as turning them invisible, so he’s careful not to disturb her.

Expecting an empty room, Hastur was surprised to see a group of priests struggling to hold an old man down on the bed. “Dagon, if you’re quite done there. You need to see this.”

“Keep Father Thomas down while I fasten the straps!” one of the priests said. Hastur quickly approached to see why the young priest is being tied down, and what he saw shocked him. “Dagon, come on,” he turned with wide eyes, “Look at him!”

The priests all moved away from the bed giving the demons a wide berth to watch it happen. Father Thomas was convulsing violently on the bed, horrendous chunks of his corpse-like skin were already falling off of his body. In between heavy breathing he was able to shout, “P-p-pprraaaaaaaaaay!”

All of them knelt in front of him as Father Thomas continued transforming right in front of them, each one shouting exultations of blessings and miracles.

“Oh lord,” Hastur said, backing away from the chilling scene, “we need to go to Beelzebub. Now!”

***********************************************

As much as Gabriel grumbled about Aziraphale’s penchant to work his way around guidelines and rules, the Archangel now realised that assigning him to Earth was one of Heaven’s best decisions. 

Reading the Principality’s reports, he had very recently noticed the care in which he described them - clever humans giving when they have none to give, finding ways to love even when it seemed everything and everyone was against them, communities passionately rejecting those that meant to harm its members because of some arbitrary standard. Humans had never been in better hands. 

_Is that my lesson, Mother? Have I become so arrogant that I lack the empathy to be with Your children?_

Without meaning to, he had been comparing those with Araquiel’s reports and marking the major differences between the two. Where Aziraphale was tender, the other was firm. Where he was intuitive with spending miracles, she was more conservative. Where he was more immersed, she was disconnected.

Much to think about. 

Gabriel and Beelzebub had both cancelled on each other the past weeks, giving flimsy reasons why they won’t be able to make their routine mid-week rendezvous. With the Powers’ speculation of war at a time when quelling the fires from legions of angels took more time than he had hoped, it made it urgent to investigate her suspicions himself. However, the Archangel still posited that this was nothing more than the paranoia of a soldier. _Or I don’t want to accept it because I just don’t like her._

Clouded with his personal judgements, he thought it best to consult with someone who’s in a more detached position. 

The admin office was located on the Overlook, the division with direct access to the Physical Realm and where most of the planning for it happens. The alignment of the planets and stars, the design of the very firmament of the Universe, and everything Earth-related. To come out of its expansive, bare building was akin to finally being able to extend wings that have been kept from beating and fluttering for a long time. 

As soon as Gabriel stepped out, his true form slowly emerged. While Archangels have the closest resemblance to the human shape, their form was more fluid and designed for maximum mobility. 

His human corporation melted to make space for his broad, crystal-like body the colour of a light aquamarine. Fragments of crystals formed on his shoulders and jutting out of other parts of him while his body extends to its full height. A white robe designed with intricate gold detailing started draping over him, covering everything except a gash from sternum to abdomen which lit up to show a flame the colour of amethyst burning bright. Gabriel retained much of the human silhouette excluding the neck and head which was like a rough-cut aquamarine enclosing a spinning ball of energy.

The Celestial City was brimming with activity. Angels from all choirs go about their tasks either for Earth or for the Universe at large. At the centre of it all was the God Keep, more of an immense presence than a physical fortress of the Almighty, surrounded by Heaven’s divisions called the Spheres. 

Seraphim, Cherubim, and Ophanim of the First Sphere have the only direct access to the Keep’s threshold. Dominions, Virtues, and Powers of the Second Sphere, and Principalities, Archangels, and Angels of the Third Sphere reside at each side of the Keep, only linked to it through God’s holy energy. 

From the Overlook, Gabriel flew to the Third Sphere. Everywhere he looked he can see the care in which Heaven was designed to support their Mother’s creation. How much of Heaven thrived because they, too, were created to sustain this Paradise for the worlds below. For this reason, he sought an Archangel who may enlighten him, the personification of divine wisdom.

He found them hovering atop one of the jutting mountains in their Sphere, looking at the direction of the Physical Realm. They wear an ecru tunic with a beige fabric tied at their sylphlike waist, and cream-coloured jacket with a beige half cloak attached to his shoulders by a leather cap. Supporting their light fawn, lissom body were wings the colour of tan leather, with feathers that look like they were made of irregular, randomly cut out parchment. Their halo are thick roots covering the length of their legs and arms, endlessly slithering and thrumming with life.

Halos weren't always a disk of light above or around their heads. More often, these were concentrated energy manifestations of their being which can sometimes be seen on their physical form. For Raziel, the roots of a fruit tree symbolises the wisdom of being well grounded spiritually and intellectually, producing the fruit of compassionate and just actions. And for Gabriel, it was the bright incision that make up most of his body, an emblem of his office - the lamp that guides the way.

“Raziel,” Gabriel called out. 

The stone-coloured iridescent face of the Archangel turned to him. Large, hypnotically golden eyes crinkling as Raziel greeted him with a welcome smile. “Gabriel, how lovely to see you. It’s been so long.” the calm voice already putting a balm on his nerves. 

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Gabriel said.

Raziel moved to make space for him, “Not at all. Always a pleasure to have company.”

He didn’t exactly know how to ask Raziel about his problems on Earth without alarming them. Still grasping for the right words to say, the other angel startled him out of his thoughts, “Remember what Mother used to tell us about them?” pointing at the Physical Realm.

“You mean the humans?” he asked.

“Hmm,” they nodded. “The Almighty said that they will join our ranks when they’re ready. That we will be welcoming them here in the Celestial City.”

“I remember, yes. Eden was still a work in progress when we were called to gather around the Keep,” Gabriel said.

Raziel looked back, a fond smile that Gabriel assumed was directed to Earth. “When you called angels to join the Big War down there, I was one of the few who stayed back, do you know that? At the time, I couldn't really reconcile God’s promise with your calls for Armageddon. And it troubled me even more that some of us here were too eager to join. I found myself, not to mince words, hating you,“ they turned to face him again genuinely laughing. 

“I can only apologise for that now,” Gabriel awkwardly replied.

They clapped him on the back, “Of course. We’re angels, Gabriel, not God. Our only advantage over the humans is we’re already here in Heaven and have all these abilities at our disposal, while they still have to work for it. We’re not immune to mistakes.” Raziel paused before continuing, “Except, sometimes our mistakes can affect them greatly.”

He nodded to agree. In the days after he ordered everyone to stand down he locked himself up in his quarters and proceeded to meditate. He’s supposed to be the Angel of Heralds, meant to be the bearer of news no matter how terrible or extraordinary. The lantern with the bright purple flame was meant to light his way, purify it, and reveal the divine transmissions to the world.

And he got it wrong.

“Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon and I worked on all the Earth projects since the beginning of its time. Yet we allowed our humility to chip away as time went on because we thought ourselves superior. And we almost killed all of them just to prove it.” Gabriel said.

“Ah, you’re forgetting something,” Raziel tutted.

“What?” he asked.

The angel drifted in front of him, “Aziraphale.”

_Yes, I almost killed him, too._

Ordering Aziraphale’s destruction wasn’t his best moment. No angel has ever been destroyed, only cast out. Even the punishments that used to be conducted by the Powers were abolished because it was unnecessary cruel violence. Gabriel would’ve set a precedent had he been able to kill Aziraphale with Hellfire. He looked down in shame, “I deeply regret that. I turned him away. Belittled him. Now he doesn’t want to have anything to do with us...In hindsight, I think I was just jealous.”

“Why do you think you were jealous?” Raziel asked.

He took a deep breath and concedes, “Because he knew the Plan better. And I couldn’t accept it.”

Raziel placed their hands on his shoulders and started rubbing the tension away until he lifted his head to meet their gaze. “Heaven jokes about him becoming too much of a creature of comfort that he couldn’t even get his assignments right,” they start. “However, what some of us who haven’t spent more than a moment on Earth can’t understand is that much of the work he’s accomplished was not because of the tasks you gave him, but because he listened to the humans and determined for himself what needs to be prioritised.”

They guide him to the tallest peak on the Third Sphere, where the winds are colder but the view of the Celestial City was far superior. “You say that you and the other Archangels worked on Earth since the beginning - so did Aziraphale. However, the four of you have become detached while he actively sought out human experiences so that he can understand them better. ”

Gabriel readjusted his robes, clutched them tight over his chest. “Raziel, I’m afraid I’m committing the same mistakes again.”

“Ah, Araquiel, the new agent on Earth.”

He nodded, hands fidgeting with his coat. “In an effort to be better, I’ve become more accepting of thoughts other than my own. However, she’s making allegations which I can’t easily brush off. Very dangerous claims with serious consequences whether they’re true or not.”

“But you don’t trust her,” Raziel concluded.

“I don’t trust her, “Gabriel affirmed 

He saw a flattened space on the mountain peak and gestured for Raziel to follow him there. They sat in silence, admiring the mix of colours of their sky’s perpetual dawn while the air carried with it the melodic tunes of the Ophanim singing at the Keep. 

They started to comfort Gabriel by extending his wings and covering him with it. He could hear them muttering under their breath as a relaxing heat started trailing from his spine to his crown. “You’re wrong you know,” Raziel said softly. “It’s not that Aziraphale knew the Plan better. None of us do. But that he stuck to our purpose on Earth - to guard them from harm, care for their needs, and love them unconditionally...Want to know something else?”

He shifted his position so that he’s better cocooned in their wings, “Sure, what is it?”

“When I gave away the first of my books so that Adam and Eve can always find their way home and so they can understand the Almighty as we understand Her, right at the same moment Aziraphale gave his flaming sword to give them a chance to survive and protect themselves. And you know what happened to the both of us when God found out?”

Gabriel just shrugged. He knew about what Raziel did because it became such a scandal in the Spheres that some angels stole the book and tossed it into the ocean. When God found out, She commanded Rahab to retrieve it and return it back to Adam and Eve. But this was the first time he’s known about the flaming sword. 

“Nothing,” Raziel summoned one of their tomes and a pen, and started scribbling on an empty page. “And do you know why?” Gabriel watched them fill one page after the other expeditiously waiting for Raziel to continue. They finally looked up from the book, “Because our actions were made out of our love for them. Remember, Gabriel - guard them, care for them, and love them. It’s innate in all of us. Or at least, it should be. We can be stubborn creatures.”

The Angel of Heralds and Revelations leaned his head on Raziel’s shoulder as they forge ahead with their writing. “What you’re saying is I should reflect on my distrust of her, remind myself of the love She shared with us and channel that as I meditate on our role on Earth, and whatever comes out of that will decide my next actions.”

Archangel Raziel, Chief of the Supreme Mysteries and Keeper of the Secrets of God, put down his pen and raised one hand in front of him, “Yes, you got it.”

Gabriel raised his own hand and excitedly gives them a high-five.


	9. The first notes of the overture.

The crimson moon hung above like an ever searching eye, a malefic beauty upon the innocuous dawn tapestry. Aziraphale sat on his small bed, body awkwardly leaning on his side and to the wall to support his full weight. 

He looked down on his arms and legs to trace the lines of new puncture wounds and gashes over old scars that were already healing. His torso and back, on the other hand was a topography of lacerations and rent skin abraded by the chafing cilice they insisted on putting on his body.

But it’s only pain. He can deal with pain. 

Aziraphale was only thankful that the cycle of days here seems to mirror that of Earth, as it gives him some semblance of time passing. Each morning, he was violently tended to by his captors until a little over midday when they both need to go for their individual tasks. He gets a couple of hours to himself until dawn, the time of day he’s most looking forward to because it’s when Crowley visited him.

Since their first connection, it became easier and easier for the serpent to come in and out of wherever the angel was being held. They have assumed that this place may be some sort of dimension that either Araquiel or Algaz have created, semi-permeable in a way, but once you’ve passed through it, the cracks made will always be there. 

Clever as always, the demon managed to slowly manifest an image of himself over the course of their meetings just by sheer power of will. So that while he couldn’t see the angel while they’re talking, Aziraphale could at least glimpse the wispy likeness of him.

Tell-tale signs of Crowley’s presence started flooding his senses. First, a neural tugging to let him know he’s near. Then a cold whirling of air that hugged him first before settling. Little by little the cool wind solidified into a hazy silhouette, until finally he’s looking at his friend. “Hello, my dear,” he said, voice still gruff from this morning’s session.

 **_“Angel, can you see me now?”_ ** the demon asked, his image was conveniently sitting right in front of Aziraphale. In his first attempts, Crowley always misses the angel’s exact location and would end up on the floor facing the wrong way or upside down on the ceiling. In one memorable night, only half of his body appeared through the window.

Aziraphale moved a bit so he can properly face him, “Yes, I can see you now. Are you with your friends?”

**_“No, decided to stay in my flat for a bit. And they’re not my friends!”_ **

“Oh come now, dear. You can have other friends, you know,” he said.

 **_“Why, do_ ** **you** **_have other friends?”_ ** Crowley asked.

The angel thought back at the gentlemen’s club he used to frequent, all those times he spent drinking and dancing with its patrons. Writers he met over the years with whom he had interesting discussions with. Other shop owners in his street who were kind enough to let him know whenever they have new things on offer. People whose company he had thoroughly enjoyed. 

So many truths about the world and about himself were slowly being revealed to him in the days after the cancelled Apocalypse. On more than one occasion, he would look around the home he and Crowley have built together, the palpable contentment and peace that enveloped their little space, and thought how much their relationship had evolved over the years. 

It took an argument for him to realise he considered him a friend, and the unforgettable image of the demon’s painful walk on consecrated ground to fully comprehend that Crowley was someone special. _Not simply a friend, but one who’s so precious to me I decided to help save the world so we’ll have more petty arguments to look forward to._

“It’s not that bad to have them. Friends, I mean,” he said. “Especially the ones with you. We wouldn’t be talking right now without their help.”

Crowley pouted and rolled his eyes in his charmingly over dramatic way, **_“Fine. I’ll consider letting them join us.”_ **

“Crowley, this isn’t a membership club,” he chided playfully.

**_“Whatever, angel! Pending review until further notice. There, I’ve said it so it’s final.”_ **

A comfortable and companionable silence, marred only by the odd stirring below his room. **_“So,”_ ** Crowley started, **_“Are you okay today, angel?”_ **

Since finding out he’s being tortured, Crowley made sure to ask how Aziraphale was holding up in his own, subtle way. Always wired and ready to jump in for each visit, although he didn’t exactly know how he’s going to extricate the angel from this place. But the sentiment was more than appreciated. In fact, the angel thought it’s sweet.

“Well, they’ve stopped talking to me altogether during our sessions. So nothing useful, at the moment. And they’ve become quite busy, too, I think,” Aziraphale mused. “If not for that incessant noise I keep hearing downstairs, I would think that I’ve been left completely alone here.”

**_“That’s good, isn’t it, when they’re too busy paying attention to you?”_ **

“Uhh, well...”

**_“What is it?”_ **

“It’s worse when we skip days,” Aziraphale intoned. Araquiel and Algaz had been exceptionally brutal the past days to “make up for lost time.” Why they thought it important to do so and why they even had missed days at all, the Principality could only guess. Crowley’s hands balled into tight fists, gathering an energy so intense even Aziraphale cfelt it through the demon’s murky mirage. “How about you, how are your investigations going?” promptly changing the subject.

It took a while for the demon to answer, collecting himself before replying, **_“We’re in a bit of a dead end. I’m thinking, if we want to get a significant lead, it’ll be easy to just contact our old superiors, which I’m obviously not looking forward to.”_ **

“We never really did things the easy way,” Aziraphale joked. “The winding path with wobbly cobblestones has always appealed to us more.”

Crowley laughed, **_“It’s not by choice, mind you. We almost always get directed to the most random thing. For infinitely dense immortal beings like us, that invites all kinds of trouble.”_ **

Aziraphale had to keep himself from moving too much, but the genuine peals of laughter from them both nearly made him forget about his injuries. “But we do end up where we’re supposed to be. Maybe there’s a logic in the randomness that we’re not seeing.”

The demon hummed his agreement. **_“Hey Aziraphale, do you know what today is?”_ **

“What?” the angel asked.

 **_“It’s been two years since we decided to mess with Armageddon.”_ ** Aziraphale knew Crowley couldn’t see him, but in the moment, their eyes met. Without glasses, he could almost believe that he’s looking directly at the demon’s eyes.

“Well, then. Happy anniversary, my dear,” he smiled at Crowley. “Let’s hope fate welcomes our messing about the second time around.”

***********************************************

The meeting they had didn't exactly end well in terms of coming up with things to prioritise. With no context as to what it was they need to be on the lookout for and a slew of supernatural beings they’d rather avoid for now, the group was moving blindly. At an impasse, Crowley decided to go back to his flat to water his plants, which they all knew to be code for ‘I need space to think’. 

Anathema, Newt, and Haj didn’t exactly need to go back to Tadfield at present since they’ve been making sure to go home as frequently as they could. Still, they could already tell that the coming days will be a doozy, so a trip back to recalibrate seemed a sound idea. 

Today, Haj and Anathema were having a mini picnic at the front garden, under the same tree they first had the conversation with Crowley that started it all, which was also the last time he had a lesson.

“Imagination is key in esoteric traditions, in fact much of spirituality is creative imagination. And especially for you as an empath, that’s something you need to learn how to use for your own benefit,” Anathema lectured.

The boy readjusted himself on the blanket and mimicked Anathema’s cross-legged pose, “I hardly think I lack creativity, but I’ve got a feeling I’m about to find out how incredibly wrong I am in that assumption.”

She bit at a cupcake they brought with them from Soho, “Yes, stupendously wrong, and you know how much I like proving that your arrogant butt doesn’t know everything.”

“Hmm, if you think my butt is arrogant, wait ‘til you hear about the neuroticisms of my left leg, always bouncing about whenever you’re around. It’s like it knows you’re an evil witch,” he replied.

A little girl on a bike caught his attention, gaze following her until she’s lost from view. He thought about each time they were helping Crowley manage his emotions while tethering to Aziraphale’s energy. How he almost lost control and got overwhelmed, how he nearly lost grasp of his own feelings and drowning with everyone else’s. A lapse he intended to correct promptly. “I’ve been tetchy, haven’t I?”

“You had a panic attack after successfully helping Crowley. It’s not tetchy, it’s worrying. And it’s not that you don't have creative power, but it’s just a little haywire at the moment. We need to anchor it and give it direction.” she said.

He gave her a small smile. It had been a surprise to him, too. Sure, it wasn’t the most draining session, and whatever they did leading up to that definitely paid off, especially now that Crowley was able to do it without batteries involved. Maybe he just underestimated a lot of things - his capabilities, the amount of emotional strain he could take. Tedious sometimes, to be overly sensitive. 

“Hey,” Anathema interrupted his thoughts, “Tell me how you were able to control Crowley’s emotions during meditation.”

Haj laughed, “You’re gonna think it’s ridiculous.”

“I expect nothing less from you. Come on, spit out,” she said, egging him on.

“Fine, okay. When my family last visited our relatives, my cousins were listening to this local rap song called ‘Stupid Love' or something. Everything about it was so hilariously absurd I fell in love with it at first listen.”

Haj started giggling, recalling the very early 2000s ballad-like opening riff before the rapper started an angry verse, and then the hopeful lyrics of the chorus interspersed with a few angsty lines. “I just imagined Crowley rapping to the song. On the rap parts, that’s when his emotions are rioted. And on that mellow chorus, that’s when it’s soothed.”

Anathema fished for her phone in her pocket and began streaming the song, “Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.”

“Don’t tell him! And it’s not like he’s really singing. I just created an image of him mouthing along to the words,” he said.

Newt arrived with groceries and announced he’s going to start making dinner. Haj was about to stand so he could help when Anathema held up her hand and gestured for him to sit back down. “Wait, before we end, I’m going to teach you how to ground yourself to help lessen the anxiety.”

“Grounding,” she continued, “requires the same thing. You need to visualise being rooted and secured to the ground so that no other energies can push you down. But how strong those roots will be are going to be entirely up to you.” She fixed her position and told Haj to prepare for their meditation. 

He closed his eyes, his surroundings vanishing, focused only on his breathing, the beating of his heart, and the clearing of his mind. Then Anathema, softly, instructed him. “Get into your mental space. Once there, I want you to think about all the things you’re grateful for. All the things that make you happy.”

Haj thought about his family and the place their mother carved for them in this quaint village. He thought about his new companions and the promise of an adventure. He thought about his own growth and the little victories that have contributed to it.

“Then I want you to imagine being rooted to your space. You said that yours look like a cliffed coast, find your favourite place there and imagine vines, roots, or whatever you want to hold you in place comfortably until you feel safe."

An image of a tropical beach they visited at their family’s province came into view. The flat, stone rock on top of the cliff had always been a special spot. It sat under a thick shade tree and had a breathtaking view of the vast ocean and the blinding rays of a setting sun. He didn’t settle himself on it, though. Haj created a staircase from the cliff going down to the beach and descended, walking past the lapping waves on the shore until he’s waist-deep in the water. 

Then thick weeds crawled up his legs and arms, carefully moving his body so that he is laid out on the water with his head tilted back and limbs stretched out. A pulsing heat trailed from the ends of his toes, until it manifested as light encasing his whole body.

“Haj, we might come face-to-face with beings whose energies we might have difficulty dealing with,” she said. “Rooting will help keep you in place. But it’s also vital that you surround yourself with positive energy and visualise it protecting you. Manipulate those visualisations to not only form a barrier, but to knock back what you don’t want to come in.”

They stayed like that for a few moments. The air around them turned cold and the street noise dwindled down to a low murmur. FInally, he opened his eyes to find Anathema staring at him. “You’re very clever, Haj. One day we might benefit from that funny head of yours.”

“Wow,” he said, genuinely touched by the sentiment. But Haj being the way he is, added, “Aww so you do care?”

Anathema threw a rolled up napkin right to his face, “You don’t deserve my human emotions. Now come on, I hate for Newt to burn down this cottage preparing salad.”

***********************************************

MadPotato was hunched quietly in a corner, squinting her right eye ever slowly as the creature drew nearer to the scope of her crossbow. Drawing a short, silent breath, finger poised on the trigger, she prepared to take on her next kill. 

But before taking the shot, one of her teammates, Widowmaker, decided to run towards the swarm guarding the turret leading into the castle. Plans of stealth infiltration recklessly thrown out the window as the team scrambled to follow him. “Hey, at least let me kill one of them first!” Reeva as MadPotato said through the mic.

She switched to a melee weapon as she reached the throng of players already exchanging blows with the enemy and deftly joined in. 

The high arch of her axe landed on one of the Grey Beasts, a wolf-type monster with more or less a level 3 threat. A few more strikes and the beast was dead, but Reeva didn’t wait to see it fall as she ran to the aid of her teammate. “I’m going to need a weapon upgrade after this,” CerealKiller said.

“Yeah, well, if Widowmaker here wasn’t being stupid, we would be at the checkpoint by now,” added Monkey King.

The last of the Grey Beasts killed, the team walked toward the castle entrance and proceeded to wreak havoc - barrels, pots, and anything breakable that potentially have gold or exotic items mindlessly thrashed, and on occasion, rolled over.

A statue glowing with hypnotic blue light beckoned for them to come closer, a short cut scene showed their characters encircling the small effigy of a veiled woman, tipping their head back as their eyes get suffused with the same bright, blue light. Transported to the checkpoint, an abandoned mansion-like refuge surrounded by an empty, flowering landscape that seemed to be in a perpetual dreamy state, all four separate, going about upgrading their gear and replenishing items.

Reeva approached the armourer to fortify her weapons. Her inventory listed down the stones and metals she could infuse on her weapon, choosing the best ones to make it deadlier. A rote task at this point, so her mind decided to meander to other thoughts.

Right after suggesting that they follow someone to find out what the colours meant, Charlie and Reeva dedicated every other day doing just that. They did discuss that following people may become a problem. More than just getting caught, they don’t really like the idea of making strangers feel uncomfortable because two hipsters were tailing them.

The plan turned into people-watching and seeing if anything strange happened, agreeing to stay in public places like parks or cafes. If the colours she was seeing do mean something, they thought that these would be good places for whatever it was to come out - open spaces were usually potential triggers for the unknown, afterall. _And good places to watch people without being creepy about it_.

It wasn’t after creating a couple more sketches when they realised how wasteful their efforts actually were. Everyone’s got colours at this point, and apart from seeing different kinds of combinations, they still didn’t know what they’re for, which was why they’re doing this in the first place. 

Much like in a game, it felt like being stuck for a long time with the same clues, the same NPCs saying the same things, and a map that wasn’t exactly helpful because it’s still mostly greyed out.

“You done, MadPotato?” Widowmaker interfered with her thoughts.

Reeva quickly finished up with her weapon, proceeded to sell a few of her items, and checked her stats one last time. “There, ready to move if you guys are.”

CerealKiller led them out to the glowing statue and then back at the castle grounds. “Hey, so we need to retrieve a music box in one of the rooms here, right?”

“Yeah,” Reeva said. “We’ll need it in the boss fight here. There’s an enormous garden right at the back where we’ll meet an NPC, but we have to scour the throne room for an item we’ll need to give her.” 

“Cool, thanks MadPotato. Now let’s roll!” Monkey King said.

Other than Charlie, the only other people Reeva talks to were her Bloodmoon teammates. The game allows players to create teams of their own or join a random game room made by other players looking to fill spots. She and an accountant - Widowmaker - ended up in one made by two college kids, CerealKiller and Monkey King.

The main reason why none of them left the group was because there’s none of the annoying toxicity. Both students were too tired to argue, the accountant just wanted to let out the aggression she’s bottled up from work, and this was the ‘life’ part of Reeva’s work-life balance. And so missions, such as this one, just finished uneventfully. 

“Hey everyone, I need to go,” Widowmaker said.

“CerealKiller and I should log off, too. Still got stuff to do,” added Monkey King.

“Sure, see you same time next week, then,” Reeva bid them goodbye.

She stayed a few minutes in front of her desktop updating her online portfolio before deciding to turn in. Instead of giving her the night’s peace, though, her mind went back to her real life mission. 

In a game, when you’ve picked up a mysterious item you don’t know where and when to use, the logical thing to do was to keep it in the inventory until the situation presented itself. With no progress to speak of and even more questions in mind, it’s starting to feel like she had the context for a lead that she doesn’t even know about. 

And that’s when she thought of an alternative plan. 

She had been treating this whole experience as a game, it made sense to talk to someone who thought the same way. Her gaming group, she felt, was detached enough for them not to avoid her if they just assume she’s gone bonkers. _But are we close enough for me to feel comfortable sharing this with them?_

Reeva thought at least the anonymity was a safety net. Whether or not it works, there’s a very slim chance that she would even meet any of them. _I’m sure CerealKiller doesn’t actually look like a swole Pepe the Frog in real life._

Resolved to at least try, she turned the lights off to welcome unconsciousness.

***********************************************

Araquiel tried to picture what it’s like for humans to feel the divine threads of their existence unravel in the Physical Realm then be rebuilt in the Metaphysical plane. Is there pain? How intense is the power that untangles their soul from the meat and bones of their corporation? 

Questions the angel pondered as she watched the light of life leave from the human lying in front of her. There was no danger of Azrael appearing to take this one, at least not until she sent the body out of her pocket dimension. 

For weeks, she and Algaz had been studying the notes the low-level demons made about the humans they’ve followed. Extraordinary physical changes worthy of attention, with some obtaining abilities that excited Araquiel. Indeed, these humans Fate had chosen to be affected and transformed were inching closer to their celestial potential, true forms that were breaking out of their mortal cocoons.

Recalling the first of their experimentation where there had been faulty transformations, the humans’ blessed form, unfortunately, were simply too dumb, but they do follow orders - this was when they only used angelic blood, which the Great Duke never stopped pointing out. Second phase involved just infusing the humans with demonic blood, assuming their Higher Self would get triggered and defend itself, but not only was there no trace of intelligent processing, the Transformed were catatonic as well. 

Third phase forced them to mix their blood just to cover all the bases and surprisingly yielded tremendous success. As is the nature of their partnership, the demon was of course trivialising this, calling them contaminated rather than what Araquiel believed them to finally be - blessed. The angel was quick to argue that they’ve not ‘infected’ the humans, but merely ‘aided’ the process of transition. “You can call it whatever you want, but the fact of the matter is, they have both pure and corrupted fluids running in their veins when there shouldn’t be any,” Algaz once said.

That wouldn’t dampen her elation, though, and her need to witness it for herself was even more magnified. And that’s how they ended up with a basement full of incognizant mortals in varying conditions. Both beings observed four possible outcomes: transformations with no ability other than an enhanced strength or ones that come with a special power, and then a sickness where they either recover or die from. 

Araquiel and Algaz stood beside the bed of the latest human who died succumbing to the sickness. “Where do you think this one’s soul will end up?” the demon asked.

She reached out to close its eyes and sent out a silent prayer, “I imagine it’ll just go through the usual journey. This one will meet the other Archangels soon enough.” _But judgement takes time - their entrance to the Celestial City is a long while yet._

The humans who have transformed were kept and chained in cells, except the failed attempts who were allowed to roam the basement to clean up after Araquiel and Algaz. “We must discuss what to do with the others. They’re still rather sick - we can just make them think they’re experiencing delirium or somesuch,” she said

“Or we can kill them?” the demon offered.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an angel. I don’t just _kill_ mortals, there has to be impetus.”

“Fine, then _I’ll_ kill them,” Algaz said exasperated.

“Perhaps you don’t see it as such, but we’re not exactly trying to exterminate them. What we’re doing is so much more than that. No, we’ll just have to release them,” she reprimanded.

Algaz rolled his eyes and walked towards the cells. She watched him with the Transformed, provoking them with a ball of fire he’s conjured up. Chains rattling to escape, looking desperate either to grasp the fire or attack the demon. 

_This is an Ascension,_ she thought, _and my beloved Transformed have accepted their place in Heaven_.

***********************************************

A deep, rumbling voice talked over the assembly, “There is a power rising faint but with palpable promise.”

Perturbed murmurs came from the shadows stirring in the fog. “I have felt it too and I do not like not knowing what it is,” one of them said. 

“We are not capable, at least not here on this plane,” another added.

Gasps and susurrations echoed in this great abyss where none but One can enter. “They are not worthy. We used to be a force, now we are confined like them. Stripped of everything. Forgotten,” said one more.

An ominous spectre overshadowed them and roared until they all fell silent, “Enough,” it bellowed. “Our bindings _are_ penetrable. A mistake is all it takes.”

Its eyes glowed red and blazing, “But we will wait and we will watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel the need to apologise to anyone who’s reading :))) i think when i started this, i got too excited with finally having an idea to play around with 
> 
> so i’ll make sure to go back after a certain point and fix how things are written/structured and make it passably readable — i know it can sometimes be distracting as a reader — but i won’t touch plotting, so i promise that even if you don’t read back, it’s going to be the same beats


	10. Responding to stimuli.

It wasn’t the stiffness of his joints, not the unrelenting tension of his whole body, not even the throbbing pain from open or scabbed over gashes and lacerations that’s giving him quite the discomfort this morning.

Platinum blonde loose curls swept across the angel’s forehead, and the incessant itching of his growing beard irritated him to no end. There’s a great many things Aziraphale wished he’s able to do instead of being manacled and tortured, and at the moment, grooming knocked the spot off even the best of crepes. 

The noises from below have become difficult to ignore as of late, too, and it had maddeningly cut into the silent, solitary moments he’d been looking forward to each day. He’s a thousand times more exhausted, tormented, and now exasperated as well.

A powerful tug forced him up his feet, the chains dragging him at the centre of the room and pulling him down so that he’s kneeling on the floor, while it tethered on the floor. Aziraphale’s head hung heavy between his shoulders, waiting for the familiar footfalls of his captors.

Araquiel and Algaz entered the room with their usual nonchalance, but they’re not alone - more were coming in to watch today’s show, it seemed, as he heard more than two sets of steps moving in the room.But something’s not right. Their spectators weren’t angels and demons - the absence of an assertive and potent energy told him as much. 

The heavy, sluggish gait he could hear moving through the floorboards pushed him to raise his head, ignoring the nausea that came with the abrupt movement. Six ashen-grey figures slowly crowded his small quarters. Some were bent forward and hunched as if in a losing battle with gravity, arms hanging limp on their sides. But the other half was different - composed and upright, they’re looking around the room with an inquisitive look until their gaze landed on him, their curious glare locked onto his shocked expression. 

_They’re humans._

Despite the differences in poise and awareness of their surroundings, there were obvious characteristics they all share with each other. On top of the cadaverous pallor, their unclothed skin were a veiny expanse littered with different-sized blotches of black - the stooped down humans have skin that are droopy and hanging over meat and bones the shape of a man, while the others were taut and tight as if the skin was stretched and pinned to its limits.

They have bloodshot, unblinking eyes that were boring holes right through him. Aziraphale watched as the humans repeatedly shook their heads vigorously like an irritated dog and then ran their hands over their arms, their body, and the top of their heads as though they’re removing something on their skin.

“I’ve been ruminating over our own creation, Principality. I’m not sure about you, but I’ve always been part of the Choir of warriors, the first of the created angels expected to impose order on the heavenly pathways.”

A wet, smoky mist started forming around Algaz, the demon’s mouth moving in silent incantation as it danced. Mesmerized by the movement, Aziraphale noticed too late that the dense cloud was starting to close in on him until he’s confined within it, seeing nothing outside of the dark haze swirling around him.

A surge of power rattled his chains from where they’re attached. Without preamble Aziraphale screamed as the violent energy reached him unencumbered. “You, Principality, were meant to rule over, educate, and guard Man until the fulfillment of the Divine Plan. But you botched it all with that demon you’ve been consorting with.”

He fell to the floor convulsing, invisible barbs of electricity tightening around him. In the darkness of his vision, his mind’s eye supplied him grinning images of his captors as they watch the frothing Principality in the throes of agony. 

“I wonder, angel, what you think sets us apart.” Algaz meted out with surprising proximity. “When God commanded us to bow down to these humans, we fell to our knees just as you did. When She told us to prepare for their welcome into our city, we worked as hard as you to make sure it happens.”

Taking fistfuls of his hair, his head was lifted from the floor. “Talk, Principality,” she said. Inaudible whispers penetrated his cage of mist, and soon after he felt the pain recede. But not the mist - it tightened its hold on him further, suffocating him. 

His corporation’s lungs burned from the lack of oxygen, the sound of his pained wheezing flooded his ears. Aziraphale tried to grab at his neck, but he couldn’t see where his hands were, he couldn’t see who’s in front of him, he couldn’t see what he’s trying to grasp at, nothing too, nothing to hold, nothing to anchor him, nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Algaz, for heaven’s sake,” Araquiel’s voice sounded flat and unaffected.

“Ugh, fine” the mist immediately cleared out, the Principality left lying in a helpless heap by the Powers’ foot gulping in lungfuls of air. “And for _heaven’s sake_ , Araquiel,” the demon went to sit on the bed and moved further back so he can lean on the wall - the very picture of relaxation, “Next time I’ll play with him however long I want.” 

With a gesture from the Captain, he’s hoisted back to his kneeling position. Aziraphale waited for his breath to even out and wished for the room to stop doing all kinds of somersaults. He closed his eyes to steady himself and whispered in a hoarse voice, “Love.”

Aziraphale heard the demon sit up but his gaze was fixed on the humans that were curiously watching the scene. “You forgot to love them,” comes his breathy voice. “The Almighty told us that Her children will need time to grow, but that we should prepare the way for them when the time has arrived. But you’ve forgotten that these were commands made out of love, and so these are obligations we need to carry out _with_ love.” 

“Yes, and yet you’ve abandoned your duty and deprived humanity of their fate,” Araquiel got down on her knees, “Don’t act all high and mighty, Aziraphale. _You_ threw that love out the window and stunted humanity when they could’ve already achieved their maximum potential.” 

The demon stood and walked to the door, “Enough, you always turn these sessions into a boring lecture. That’s not what we planned to do today.” Algaz dragged someone in the room and threw them right in front of Aziraphale. Another human, one who looked to be at death’s door. He's so meek and small, and yet he also looked aged and decrepit. Red-rimmed and bulging eyes were wide with fright, and his bony limbs were shaking uncontrollably as if anytime he’d just collapse and crumble to dust. “Do you remember this one, Principality?”

He looked at him closely trying to match his face with names he knew, but nothing was registering. The young man shook his head, much like the human transformed creatures in the room and raised his head to him. Then it clicked. _He knocked on my door. One of the hungry youths who attacked and captured me._

“Finally realised it, have you?” Algaz said grinning. “This one’s quite stubborn and took longer than his friends. But, well, you’ll see.”

The young man’s body tensed and attempted to make a sound in between laboured breathing. Perhaps to speak. Perhaps to ask for help. He began thrashing about, dark spittles from its mouth started flying out with his seizures.

“You are about to witness a miracle, Aziraphale. Keep your eyes open,” Araquiel said.

For a few breaths, no one moved and the only sound were his pained whimpers. Then he screamed, a harrowing sound of pure torment reverberating around the room forcing its walls to collapse. Fingernails turning sharp, shredding what remained of his normal human skin as he turnec to snarl at him. He continued to glare at him as chunks of his clawed-out skin fell to the floor. 

“What have you done?” a tear-stricken angel looked fixedly at the human, but the longer locks that fall over his eyes were obscuring his view. “What have you done to them?!” Aziraphale cried out.

The warrior-angel and the rogue demon stood behind the transformed human, with Araquiel tenderly putting a hand over his head as if she’s blessing him. “We're doing what should have happened if you hadn’t interrupted Armageddon,” she said.

Suddenly, his personal grooming woes seem distant.

***********************************************

At this point, if she hears another acoustic version of a pop song, Reeva was going to start banging her head on one of the chubby cherubic babies at the church lawn.

Her plans to deal with the Sight, as she has started calling it because it sounded cool, has been put on pause because Charlie wanted her to come along at his gig. The local chapel invited him again to sing at their weekend market, and the offer was lucrative enough that his current bank statement decided to take it before he had even had a chance to say ‘yes’ himself. To make it up to her, he promised to treat her to dinner after, and how can anyone refuse a free meal at the local artisan cafe she only ironically likes? So at the church grounds she finds herself today, listening to her friend pluck the first chords to Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Run Away With Me’.

Bored to the bone, she decided to just roam the chapel gardens which was replete of people at this time. This feels nice, she thought. It’s been a while since she’s just there, existing, metabolising oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide. 

But more than that, it had been an unsettling start of the day for her. She had been going about her morning routine when she noticed that her own face was glitching. More like a static hitch of a picture than the violent shaking she had been seeing on other people. Even so, it had perturbed her so much she had almost cancelled on Charlie. It’s one thing to see it on other people, but on her…

And so she strolled, not walked but bloody _strolled_ the hell out of that church garden.

It’s a tranquil, isolated place with some of the most vibrant plants and flowers she’d seen within the metro. Distantly, she could hear Charlie singing a somewhat familiar tune, but she can’t be bothered to figure out what it was.

A strange movement at the far side of the garden, right beside the private quarters behind the chapel, distracted her. Channeling the stealth powers of Solid Snake, she hid herself among the hedges and followed the lone figure. Within seconds, she finally registered why this man caught her attention: the glitching.

He was humming happily along with the melody of the song being played in the market. _White base colour with a very strong violet and a light red layer_ , Reeva observed. The man was in front of a shrub of hydrangeas, touching the flowers until each one looked livelier than before. _He can control plants?_ Reeva thought as she lamented forgetting her tablet for drawing. 

“I have my phone!” she said in hushed excitement. Reeva took her rucksack from back to find her phone while cursing herself for being unable to fit it in her pockets since she’s wearing skinny jeans. _Because fashion!_ her traitorous brain cell said. 

She was so focused on getting the camera to work that it completely startled her when he stopped humming and a priest was suddenly beside him. She’s still trying to control her shaky hands when the camera app at long last decided it really wanted to cooperate with her.

Reeva pointed the back camera lens to the man who’s still regenerating wilted flowers while he’s conversing with the young priest. However, as soon as the camera started adjusting focus, a door leading to the private rooms opened. She shifted her gaze at the figure still hidden in the shadows inside and pointed the camera there. 

The lens was recalibrating its focus again because she moved to a different scene, so it’s all just a blurry image of the person coming close to the light. As soon as the view has corrected itself, what she saw almost made her drop her phone. 

A tall figure raised its blanched arm to beckon flower man to approach. Its forehead is wider than normal, but the eyes that were sunk deep into its sockets, the elongated face that looked close to a snout, and the random swelling made it look like a cross between a Slitheen and what a werewolf would look like if a two-year old drew them.

Reeva’s First Law stated that often at your most relaxed, something will almost always decide to crawl up and bite you in the butt like the most attention seeking pest. 

This one didn’t just want to bite her butt, it wanted to consume her whole, the selfish bastard. So Reeva decided to book it. When she reached the market tent, she checked what little footage she was able to capture. It’s surprisingly there - the flowers blooming under the man’s touch and a snippet of the monster she saw standing inside the church, but the resolution isn’t exactly the best. 

_Eight short seconds, only a little over a Vine._ Regardless, she had evidence. Reeva saved the clip in a private cloud folder with all her drawings.

She was definitely going to show this to Charlie at dinner, but she was planning to get more brains working on this problem. With Charlie, she’s almost sure he’s going to suggest a stakeout to get better footage. She’ll probably agree but will nonetheless complain the whole time. 

But what would her gaming clan think? A player was expected to piece together a viable solution from what little they know or have. _We_ have _solved more complicated problems with even less information to work with…_ It might help to have a different perspective other than hers and Charlie’s, she reflected.

“Yeah, should be no harm in it, I guess.”

***********************************************

“Stand and join the others,” Araquiel commanded The young man, doubled over and slack, obediently did so. 

Aziraphale’s initial shock quickly dissipated, making way for a slightly foreign sentiment - unadulterated wrath. “Why did you do this?” he said with a startling tinge of divine fury from the power his manacles were trying to dampen. 

“We’re bringing about humanity’s ascension, Aziraphale. I literally just had a whole spiel about it, do try to keep up,” she said. Algaz pulled the upright Transformed in front of him, noticing how each one were giving the demon an affronted look. For the listless and dopey ones, he began barking orders at them - move the bed there, clear out this space. He noted that these ones will do the task and will stay there until there’s explicit instruction to go somewhere else.

The contrast between the Transformed was peculiar enough for Aziraphale to shelf his grief for a while to get the proverbial stick and start prodding. He observed the obsequiousness of the others, as though independent thought, the very crux of human nature, has been effectively ripped out from them. On the other hand, he could see an underlying inquisitiveness with the humans in front of him. 

Araquiel flourished a hand over them, “What you see before you, Principality, is the completeness of God’s design.”

“You had no right to meddle with their design,” he retorted. The angel gaped at the way the transformed humans would irritably move their heads from side to side, the way their hands roam all over their body vigorously pinching and scraping. Repetitive gestures that disturbed him more than they should.

Algaz moved to stand with the duller Transformed, “It’s not meddling if all we did is reveal what Man is at their core. Look at them, Aziraphale. Tell me now that the First Fallen were not right. This - this is evil in its pure, crystalised form.”

There’s suddenly a palpable tension in the room, as if the air was being sucked out. The hair at the back of Aziraphale’s neck stood at attention as he saw the veins on Araquiel’s rigid arm pulsing, gathering strength. 

“Oh stop it, Authority, I’m not gonna have this debate today,” the demon said annoyed. Aziraphale hated that he reminded him of Crowley. “ _Y_ _ou_ think this is some sort of divine evolution and I think _not_ . Either way, we both agree that this is _beautiful_.”

Before the Powers’ could answer, a voice spoke over her. “Are you talking about us?” one of the Transformed said.

“Is there something wrong with us?” another one supplied as it bent down to run grisly, swollen hands over his legs.

The last one drew close to Aziraphale’s kneeling form and reached out to tread his curious fingers through the angel’s lengthy hair, “You’re frightened.”

Araquiel approached it and puts a hand on its shoulder. “You’re one of the few who have accepted the gift of your true form,” she said while glaring at the demon. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The Principality’s knees were starting to buckle and the temptation to slump on the floor was proving difficult to resist. Hesitating for a moment, he tested whether he’s still being held down on the floor. Realising that he could finally move his limbs on his own, he placed both hands on the floor and lifted his knees one by one, lifting himself up until he’s standing toe to toe with the human. “There was never anything wrong with you, children. I’m sorry if I misspoke.”

“Don’t look at them with pity, Principality. They are more than ready for what’s to come.”

Heavy hands coming down his shoulders startled him. Algaz leaned in so close that he shuddered at the demon’s breath on his skin, “We did a lot of work to produce the ones in front of you. Frankly, I don’t appreciate the lack of applause.”

“And what is to come?” Aziraphale ignored him.

Algaz started kneading his shoulders, squeezing even harder as his body tensed. “The war, Principality!” he said excitedly. “Both our sides are still owed a good ‘ol celestial blood-spilling.”

Storm-blue eyes widened in shock. _They can’t mean what I think they mean._ The more languorous of the Transformed were still standing on the other side of the room. They’re swaying in their place as if a melody was playing that only they can hear. “You’re instigating a war. Building an army. Of humans?”

The Authority told the astute Transformed to leave the room and wait at the hall. “Oh, no. Even in their improved state, these humans are simply no match. No, they’ll be useless in the war.”

“Well,” Algaz said petting his hair, “It’s a _bit_ like building an army. But more like building an army for bait. Heaven and Hell needs to have a reason to restart the war, and what better way to show it than by doing this.”

Realisation dawned on him. This was the war Crowley was alluding to after their body swap. Well, not exactly, but it’s as he expected to happen: the humans were going to be plunged between deadly powers they’ll be defenceless to face against. “To what end?” Aziraphale asked quietly, “What is this war supposed to prove?”

“You know as well as I that Armageddon isn’t just the ‘end of the world’” Araquiel somehow contrived to say with the quotation marks. “It was supposed to usher in a new age where one side can dictate the new rules over creation.”

The Great Duke whispered into his ear, “Tensions that haven’t been released was what resulted in the Fall and the First War. Frankly, this one’s already overdue.” 

Aziraphale was having difficulty taking this all in. There’s still so much to scrutinise about their logic, but much more pressing was the state the humans in this house were currently in. He looked at the Transformed remaining in his room. The shaking and the hands roaming over their body were still recurrent. “What makes them different from those outside?”

Araquiel wiped the sweat on Aziraphale’s brow, “They’re slow. There’s not much _finesse_ , if you know what I mean.”

Behind him, Algaz wound his hands around his stomach and rested his head on his shoulders, “And they’re quite dumb, angel. An insect can outsmart them. But they are strong, so at least there’s that.”

Aziraphale recoiled but can’t move as much with both trapping him. _I’d rather they beat me up than this._ “And they don’t do anything unless commanded to,” he said.

To demonstrate, Araquiel pointed at one of the dull Transformed and ordered them to get a chair from downstairs. It obliged to the request almost instantly. They waited only a moment for it to come back carrying the item the angel asked for. But instead of entering the room, it just stood there looking at them from outside. “Come inside the room and place that chair right behind me,” another command from the Captain. And quickly, it did so.

The demon walked around him and stood beside the Authority who was now sitting on the chair. “Half of that’s our fault. Araquiel and I are warriors, angel. We never bothered learning the chemistry behind these things.”

“And the other half?” the Principality prompted.

Demon and angel shared a look before bursting out laughing. “We took them from a flat earther convention. Go figure,” the demon said. 

“You said something about chemistry? What does that mean?” Now that they’re being talkative, Aziraphale might as well take advantage of the moment. Both of them turned to him, identical mischievous grins plastered on their faces, which was unsurprisingly more disturbing than when they’re blatantly disagreeing with each other. They unfortunately didn’t deign to answer, though.

So many things learnt today and yet still so many questions. Nevertheless, if there’s one important takeaway, it’s that he doesn’t need to stay here any longer. Aziraphale more or less knew what motivation drove them - his decisions from here on will at least be guided. He must now find a way to escape and get to Crowley fast. 

_And for once, stupidity will save the day._

***********************************************

Nothing can really ruin your day in the most infuriating way than being told you’ve got the “hyper hallucinations of a sleep deprived college student high on caffeine” by someone called CerealKiller on the Internet. 

Why she thought this was actually going to be an enlightening exercise with like-minded people, she didn’t know. What she didn’t expect was for them to tease her - this ess probably the most emotionally detached gaming group she’s ever been in, it’s sometimes impressive how reaction-less they can be, and yet now they’re all active and united in making fun of her.

“You're an artist, right?” Widowmaker said, hiding behind her Guy Fieri avatar. 

“Obviously, I mean look at her drawings. They look so good!,” Monkey King said.

_Wow, ‘preciate that Monkey King._

“I can’t be having hallucinations for actual _months_ , CerealKiller. That’s ridiculous,” Reeva replied. 

“Well, the video isn’t exactly A24 quality, isn’t it. It’s granier than a Serbian horror film,” CerealKiller said.

“Ugh, I really thought this would be helpful.”

Collective apologies came through her headphones. She didn’t like their tone much - Reeva would rather they think her crazy than be pitied, if she’s being honest. Crazy, you shrug off after a while. That’s why those stupid videos that go viral only have a lifespan of a week. 

To be pitied was to be stabbed by a bread knife.

“You know what, yeah sure, let’s figure this out. So you said it started right after you got sick. Then what?” Widowmaker, as scary as she was when she lets go in the heat of battle, she’s the most centered out of all of them.

“Overtime, the colours became _layers_ of different colours. Like there’s a combination that I can’t yet solve. Then the glitching - that’s what’s most disturbing. It’s like an error in the code but for real life.”

Murmurs of agreement all around. She’s sure they’re probably trying to imagine what it would feel like if they see their neighbour running through a wall or if they suddenly defied the laws of physics. Weird, indeed.

“The colour combinations - didn’t you say that man you saw touching those flowers had like a what?” CerealKiller asked.

Reeva pulled up the drawing she did when she got home from her dinner with Charlie. “White base colour with a layer of violet and red.”

She realised that in-game, they’re all in the abandoned mansion and yet everyone’s done powering up. _Aww, they all stopped playing just to indulge me._

“Hmm, I wonder,” Monkey King began, “Maybe the white and black are, like, indicators of power? Because remember that one time we fought the Angel of Harduk and it had these minions surrounding it with, like, different energy colours pertaining to different abilities? But you said that they’re base colours, so that’s probably about basic ability categories?”

Reeva tried to digest that. It made sense, all abilities can be initially divided into Active or Passive powers. “So in that man’s case, that’s more of an offensive-active category, right? Because he looks like he has full control of what he’s doing, picking which flowers get to live.”

The group was transported out of the mansion and back in Central Yezir. Falling into formation, they continue exploring the derelict buildings, getting into small skirmishes with the night creatures that were about. 

“You know, I just realised,” CerealKiller said after a while, “That drawing you did of the priest in your cinematic masterpiece - it looked like a Grey Beast, but uglier.”

“Oh, you’re right,” WidowMaker added.

As if on cue, a pack of the monsters appear as they entered a new destination in the map. _That_ is _interesting…_

The colours, the monster, they’re all in _this_ game. Reeva wondered what else was similar. Well, the glitching wasn’t exactly new, all games ship bugs. However, there must be something about what she’s seeing and this game. 

_The game is referencing real life shit!_ Reeva thought as she swung her axe into the beast’s torso. 

_No, that’s absurd_ , she looted the Grey Beasts’, adding more pelt and wolf teeth in her inventory.

_Unless…_

Reeva was right in predicting that Charlie would suggest sneaking into the church at night. She now has something to look forward to other than the bloody mosquitos, at least. With her predicament forgotten, the game continued on. However, Reeva’s Second Law reared its ugly head. It states that one unexpected thing will definitely follow another, more surprising thing. Unbeknownst to her, during their gameplay, one of her teammates shared her horrible video. 

In a few hours, that and her stupid story will be everywhere in the game forums.

***********************************************

 _There is hope!_

Following their lengthy conversation this morning, Araquiel and Algaz made up for all the talking with a lashing. He’s lying on his front just to avoid pressure on the worst of his wounds, the heavy chains tearing through his skin anew and chafing his wrists. But he was left with the duller Transformed. They were commanded to watch him closely, and if his theory was right, there was yet a chance to get out.

Crowley described a hole in the barrier, the same one he was able to break into the first time around. The demon told him that he’d been chipping at it each time he visits, which meant that section of this bubble is near penetrable.

_I just need to find it and break it._

Intent on escaping tonight, he gingerly pushed himself off the bed and set his eyes on them. "I’m thirsty,” he said in the most commanding voice he can manage. “Get me some water, please.”

The humans turned to him with a most vacant stare. He’s starting to worry, shifting on his bed as each uncomfortable second passes. He repeated again, this time pointing at one of them, “You, please get me a glass of water.” And that’s what did it, a pointed command at a specific person. 

Immediately after one of them left the room, he barked his next command. “You, please break these chains. Quickly.” This one tried to walk to him briskly and only fell twice in the effort. _Oh, I’m really sorry, my dear_ , he apologised in his head. Its distended fingers wrapedp around the chains on the floor in front of him. Aziraphale saw the moment its muscles bulged as it pulled the chains apart. 

He has always found it Interesting that they thought to design thaumaturgic chains using Earth metal. It effectively sucked the power out of him, sure, but any external force could still break it. The manacles around his wrists were different though, he’s now learning. The chains have broken but his powers were still being tempered. _This might need more than physical force, I think_.

Aziraphale tested the strength of his legs, adjusting his centre of gravity so he can get just enough balance to be able to walk. Finding his equilibrium, he moved to the door. Sweating with effort, he focused on getting one foot after another as quickly as he could. He’s tempted to just fling himself down the stairs, but further injury might hinder his slow progress. 

Once at the bottom, he saw the stick Araquiel conjured for him by the door. He took it with him, and leaned on it, he power walked toward the field, channeling all the fitness mums he’s seen at St. James’ every morning. 

It wasn’t until he's mid-way through the field when he realised there’s a noise behind him. _You’ve got to be kidding me_. The Transformed have followed him outside, one of them carrying the glass of water he asked for and the other still holding on to the chains he’s broken. Aziraphale tried to run as fast as he possibly could. He turned his head to look back and saw them running too!

“Shit.”

The angel continued to clumsily run on three legs until he bumped into where the barrier was located. He grasped at it, trying to find a divot or a weak spot where Crowley might’ve broken into, but to no avail. Aziraphale was getting weaker and tired, and the fire of hope was slowly dying out. All the while, the Transformed was standing behind him looking on. “Right, because the command was to watch me _closely._ ”

Aziraphale stopped for a moment to rest and think. His mind started going through what he knew of this barrier. He knew anyone Araquiel allowed to come in or out can basically do so without effort. It’s strong, yes, but it’s breakable. 

_I wonder…_

Turning to look at the humans behind him, he attempted to stand even more upright and mustered his best Principality voice. “All of you. Break this barrier. Punch it, kick it, whatever you do, make sure it’s in this exact same spot,” he said pointing at the space in front of him.

Crowley broke through it psychically, that’s most likely why it took longer. Araquiel was an angel of force, and the Principality thought that her domain will most likely be of the same characteristic. _And the only way to go against that is exert force, as well._ The angel watched as the humans applied superhuman strength in destroying the spot he’s chosen. 

Moments after, he heard it - a crack in the glass, a pop in the bubble. Positively buzzing at this point, Aziraphale was almost tempted to join in the punching until he remembered he needed to start gathering what little power he can channel through the broken iron. 

A few more strong punches and a man-shaped doorway started revealing itself. The Principality needed just a small tinge of power for a minor miracle. He felt the static of power that remained dormant for a long time - he visualised a well of divine energy and lifting heavy arms over it so he can dip even the tips of his fingers. 

“Yes, there, please let this be enough.”

Aziraphale’s mind locked onto an image of the safest place he could think of, and then proceeded to pass through the doorway.


	11. A leaf in the stream of creation.

Worse than deafening silence was the sound your brain makes to fill in the void - like a combination of television static and elevator music. It’s not ideal when you’re supposed to be brooding while disentangling another celestial mystery.

And so Crowley, nearly hoarding the universe’s supply of brooding and celestial problem solving, sat at a small artisan cafe, al fresco, steaming cup of black coffee, the Notes app opened on his phone with the single word ‘IDEAS’ in bold.

To push things forward, Crowley decided to skip a few days of visiting the prison dimension, a plan the angel irritatingly agreed with. Sure, he was the one who suggested it, but the speed with which Aziraphale supported it with a spirited ‘That sounds good, dear boy! You might get a substantial lead from outside’ prompted an automatic objection from every cell of his body. Not to mention, he didn’t exactly know where to start the investigation - hence the brooding.

His right leg apprehensively bounced up and down in time with the blinking text cursor on his screen. This wasn’t a dead end, he thought. When you’re at a dead end, you can just turn around and retrace your steps, see what details you missed out on. No, this was more like a standoff between him and the void - Crowley was at his wit’s end, although where his wit decided to expend its energy in this vast null state was another mystery he just hasn’t got the time to think about.

It continued to blink, but this time the text cursor gave rise to the constant bass of his beating human heart and the hi-hat of the rushing blood in his veins. Crowley continued to stare, to listen, while his brain matter was busy digging information from all his conversations with the angel. Then he picked up the phone and typed - HUMANS ARE IN DANGER. _From whom? Who’s involved?_ He followed that up with NEW AGENTS OF ON EARTH. _What makes them different?_ THEY’RE KIND OF A BIG DEAL, he wrote just beside it. _How have they not been caught yet?_ In a new line he finished his notes with, GABRIEL AND BEELZEBUB DON’T KNOW. OR THEY’RE SCARED.

Facts should be comforting when you’ve written them down. But as it is, Crowley won’t get to fulfill his lifelong dream of sticking stuff up on his wall with pins and threads looking for a connection like a madman smoking cheap cigarettes. _Oh well._

The vacuum chamber that held him in that moment suddenly popped open its lid with a discernible whoop. Muted chatter and the sound of city traffic began to seep into his consciousness as he picked up his still hot cup of coffee.

He leaned back on his chair and observed the activity around him. When God presented Man as his beloved children, Crowley was consumed with so much warmth coming from the very core of his being, that he endeavoured to create the most majestic galaxies and to fill the skies with beautiful star light just for them. In those days, it seemed that all of Heaven was feeling the same thing as it busied itself to build an environment that would nurture Her children. 

But he was mistaken.

Boiling under that deep affection was Heaven’s first experience with deep hate. Lucifer, whose voice was chief among those who shared his sentiments, have started challenging this love between Her and Man. He and the other angels had no doubt God loved them, but they rejected Man’s capability to love _Her_ unconditionally. The Fall didn’t happen because angels started doubting God’s plan - it happened because they started believing that at their core, Man was pure evil, during a time when ‘evil’ hasn’t even been formed yet.

To protect Her children, he threw these angels out of Heaven to be damned to an eternity with only paltry traces of God’s Grace. For angels, a boiling pool of sulphur was nothing compared to feeling that Grace slowly being corrupted within you. But these angels - they welcomed it, because they saw this an eternity to prove Her wrong.

They spent millennia creating Hell - designing it to be Heaven’s shadow. 

And Crowley, well, just like a handful of angels who tried to mediate the situation, fell with them. A misunderstanding, perhaps. A mistake. Or maybe they were too neutral and She just wasn’t taking any chances. Regardless, it has completely affected his relationship with Heaven, and unfortunately, with God. _I keep praying to you, though, Mother. Can you still hear me when I do?_

Crowley got distracted by the people on the table beside his. The sky was downcast and the threat of rain was imminent, and these blokes decided it’s the best time for a raucous laugh. If Aziraphale were here, he would’ve already turned around and given them an earful the first second they made that vexing sound. Having spent literal millenia with the angel, some of that fussiness has lamentably rubbed off. The demon prepared to give these _youths_ his most devilish reprimand when something they said made him stop.

“MadPotato is going to kick your ass,” said one of them, still laughing.

“I know, I didn’t realise people would keep talking about it in the forums. That video quality is really shitty,” the other guy said, wiping a tear from his eye.

Crowley slowly sat up to peer at them. An odd pair, one looked as if he puts whey protein in everything he eats while his friend could benefit from more potatoes and rice in his diet. 

“You have to admit though, that grainy image of the priest looks like one of those demonic Grey Beasts,” muscle man said.

Carb deficient guy took out his laptop and opened up a page. The demon squinted his eyes trying to get a glimpse of what he’s scrolling through, when the guy stopped and played a video. “Yeah, a bit. Oh, I really wish this were real. Can you imagine seeing demons in real life? Wow.”

 _Wow, indeed_ , Crowley thought.

“Anyway, hopefully she hasn’t seen it yet when we play tonight. I really don’t want to join another gaming group this late in the game.”

Crowley emptied his cup, cleared his throat, and asked them, “What game is that?”

Obviously not expecting anyone to talk to them even though their loud voices made whatever they were talking about everyone’s business, both guys seemed to buffer in front of him. The demon rolled his eyes, and already irritated, asked again, “That game you’re talking about with the Grey Beasts, what is that called?”

“Uhm, Bloodmoon,” the small guy hesitantly answered.

Crowley pocketed his phone and stood up to loom over their table, “And that video, who posted it?”

“W-we don’t know her actual name, but she’s called MadPotato. We’re in a team with her. In the game, I mean,” muscle man answered with a gulp.

He grabbed hold of the laptop to look at the screen up close. Bloodmoon is an OpenRPG game, whatever that meant, and featured all manner of creatures. _Like those ‘demonic Grey Beasts’._ Crowley then went to the other tab and saw the video post. 

There’s nothing much to go on since the video looked as if it was taken by the world’s most rheumatic person - shakier and granier than your grandmother’s home videos. But it _is_ there, he can see inhuman features, just about. _And what is that man doing with the flowers?_

Crowley briskly handed the laptop to startled hands, “Thanks, lads. Next time, try to keep it down or I will make sure every cup of coffee you drink is room temperature. Not cold, but that annoying temperature between gloriously hot and disgustingly cold.”

Sauntering away from the cafe, Crowley remembered about Aziraphale’s words in their last conversation. _“Maybe there’s a logic in the randomness that we’re not seeing.”_ Why not - with no leads and no other information, probing this is the next best thing to do.

 _Oh well, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been_ divined _to do._

***********************************************

Aziraphale was dreaming.

He can’t remember the last time he dreamt having no need for sleep. The angel observed the silhouettes of personages he felt should be familiar to him fade in and out of his vision, a phantasm awash with a sort of haze unique only to the dreamscape.

Then he found himself standing in a garden. Not that Garden - this one was smaller, cultivated for no other purpose than as a private space. The image was still falling into place but he can make out the familiar reds, lilacs, and yellows. _Crowley’s garden._

Aziraphale watched as their cottage came into view and the flitting movements of the redhead tending to their home. Millennia of avoiding prolonged contact was a habit they both found difficult to kick the first month into their retirement, but the only logical next step in fully embracing it was to truly spend time together without looking over their shoulder. Because no one’s closely watching them. Because now they’re allowed. Because there’s finally nothing to fear.

The angel walked up their front door and opens it to find that he’s now in the bookshop. If South Downs has become a sanctuary, Aziraphale’s bookshop was more of a fortress. Cluttered yet cosy, these walls have witnessed every devised scheme, unfortunate wallowing, and crazy drunken night. He didn’t see how it crumbled and burned, but blessed with a second life, A.Z. Fell and Co. remained to be a stronghold for both of them.

Shelves sighing apart under the weight of heavy tomes and countless books strewn about, the haphazardness that only made sense to him was a heartening vision. A welcome sight marred only by three monstrous faces appearing too close for comfort - as if prompted by their appearance, the haze started to dissipate and the angel was shaken forcefully to wakefulness. 

“Alright, alright, I’m awake!” Aziraphale shooed the faces away from him. Back aching from lying on the floor, he bent his knees so that his feet could anchor his ascent, and with his hands flat on either side of him, he pushed his body slowly upright. Under his hands he could feel threadbare carpeting, the floorboards’ ancient groaning from his movements reverberate around him. Breathing long and deep, the angel looked up to the skydome, where warm, coruscating light spilled over him. _My bookshop_.

Eyes watering from the brightness, he turned away from the light and allows his gaze to wandered over his surroundings, which was again interrupted by the creatures still kneeling around him. _Creatures? Why are there cr-- Oh!”_

“Oh children, are you okay?” he said looking for signs of distress. One of them took hold of his head with both hands and slowly dragged him close until their faces were mere inches from each other. “Uhm ah, yes, you all seem to be okay.” 

The angel’s side swept hair moved with every exhale from the Transformed. “I’m quite alright as well, you can release my head now. If you can all just help me up from this floor, that would be lovely.” All three stood up circling him - he reached out expecting to be helped up, instead one of them squatted to put its rough arms under his knees on his lower back, cradled like a child who just fell in the playground. Aziraphale’s arms automatically wound around its neck, “Hey! Put me down now, this isn’t what I meant!” 

Promptly, the creature hunkered down to let the angel go, but before it did, another pair of hands took him brusquely and carried him again. “Stop it, I said put me down!” Aziraphale protested, but they just kept handing over the Principality between each other. 

A noise came out from them, a gargling that kept getting louder. It took a moment for Aziraphale to realise it, but the Transformed were laughing. _Great, at least they’re having fun_.

Distracted by this ruckus, Aziraphale noticed too late that someone just entered the bookshop.

Door still ajar, her long shadow crossed the threshold before she did. When you’re the only one who had the key to a bookshop owned by a celestial being, it would have already been unsettling to find someone inside. At the moment, a range of emotions went through Anathema. Obviously alarmed, she took in the scene in front of her. Of three things she was sure of: one, that was definitely Aziraphale; two, with him were what she can only describe as bipedal beasts; and three, they’re passing the angel around like how you would a kitten. 

“Stop it this instance. Put me down on the floor and don’t pass me around!” the angel shouted, and the last creature holding him nonchalantly plopped him on the floor, leaving him rolling to his side. “Argh, that’s my bad arm you monsters,” he protested rather weakly.

Propping himself up on the floor, Aziraphale finally met the Witch’s gaze. “Anathema.”

“Hello, Aziraphale,” she replied, shock settling into her system slowly, as if it’s still trying to process that the angel, the one they’ve been searching for the last couple of months, is _in_ his bookshop with no prompt from them. “How are you -- well, how did you--,” Anathema tried to ask.

Aziraphale reached out a hand, silently asking for Anathema’s assistance. He tried not to bear all of his weight on her, but his body has started to realise that it’s still pretty much beaten, weak, and in pain. His legs eventually stopped wobbling enough to support him and allow him to stand eye to eye with the Witch of Tadfield.

“A very long story, my dear. I _would_ like to tell you, but I rather find myself feeling like I’m about to collapse. If you would be so kind as to help me get to the back room, I would really appreciate it.” With an arm supporting his waist and a last meaningful grunt, he placed one foot after another, concentrating on the movement more than the direction they’re going. “What about them?” she asked.

“We can just leave them there. Hold on,” he turned his head to see three pairs of eyes staring blankly at him while they’re thoughtlessly shaking limbs and roving hands on their head and other parts of their body. “Stay there and wait for me to tell you what to do,” he firmly instructed.

Anathema guided him to the couch and offered to make him tea. Nothing was amiss as far as he could tell - his trinkets and baubles still sat on his book-littered desk, scrolls and papers were still sticking out of books he’s keeping on the shelves here. _And the walls are still painted with streaks of blood_. Anathema came back with a hot cup of chamomile and a small plate of biscuits. “Oh, bless you,” he said.

In silence, he chewed on his day-old biscuit and savours it as though they were presented to him on a golden plate from the Ritz itself. It had been a long time since his last meal, having rejected all attempts from Araquiel to feed him bland oats. _The last time was the cream danish Crowley brought for breakfast._ Apart from being marked and wounded, his corporation has regrettably lost weight. It’s only through sheer will that it hasn’t broken down on him yet. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he placed the plate on the small table and picked up his tea. “Where is Crowley?”

Beside him, Anathema curled up in a ball and scooted back on the armguard. “He went back to his flat with Newt and Haj. Must have learnt something useful, he practically dragged them away from me,” she said smiling. 

An amusing picture of Crowley hauling two clueless humans to whatever it was he’s planning to do. They’re not exactly helpless in the matter, they _can_ refuse, but they’ll find that the demon’s persuasive energy is difficult to disregard. 

There’s so many thoughts racing in his mind, but in front of the first friendly face he’s seen, hearing about one of the most important beings in his life, all he could muster was a teary smile he’s hoping had conveyed all that he wanted to say.

“That’s what’s making you incredibly tired,” Anathema said matter of factly, pointing at the metal cuffs that were still around his wrists. “Would you like to rest, Aziraphale? I can help you up your room.”

The angel jangled the cuffs and the broken chain links still attached to it. “Thank you, my dear. I think I’ll want to bathe first. I used up all my power to get here - I’m not sure if I can afford to miracle myself clean.”

“Sure, let’s get that prepped, then,” she said, offering her arm to Aziraphale as they make their way up the flat.

The flat looked well used, mostly because it’s _clean_. In a year, Aziraphale would come up here probably five or six times, if he actually remembered he has a flat to store even more of his books. He assumed Anathema had to stay here for Crowley. “I’m sorry if the amenities here weren’t much, but I hope you were comfortable,” he said.

“Are you kidding? It felt like staying at an AirBnB, we loved being here. Honestly, all we need is a place to sleep and eat, everything else is just frills,” another comforting smile filling the angel with so much warmth. She proceeded to turn on the taps on the bath and poured all sorts of liquids in it. Lavender with a hint of orange and geranium whirled around them, suds form with every rapid run of Anathema’s hand through the water. “I’ll come back with towels. I think I saw your nightgown in the wardrobe, so I’ll bring that, too.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop thanking you, my dear, for all your help,” Aziraphale said. Overwhelmed with all of it, he burst into tears. _The first friendly face. The first kind gesture_. He felt a comforting hand rubbing his arm over the rough hewn of his cilice. 

“We’re going to get you all sorted, Aziraphale, don’t worry,” Anathema prompted him to follow her breathing, exhaling deep through the nose and inhaling slowly through the mouth. “I’ll even give you a haircut after you’ve rested, how about that?”

The angel chuckled delicately, “Yes, I do need a bit of a trim, don’t I?”

Aziraphale sat on the tub’s rim and began to take off his cilice as the witch headed out the bathroom. “Oh, and Anathema?” the Principality feebly called out. Anathema padded the short distance back and poked her head in. 

“I hope you might extend your kindness for a while longer to help me with something,” he said.

“You know you don’t have to ask, right? But yeah, of course, what are we going to do?”

He balled up the cilice shirt and threw it in the bin, with a glint in his eye he said, “I’m in my bookshop now. Work finally commences!”

***********************************************

“So, video games, how familiar are you with it?”

On Crowley’s marble-top office desk a 38-inch, high resolution curved monitor dominates the space, wireless backlit keyboard and smooth-tracking mouse were on an oversized mat, two speakers attached to an amplifier are perched at the corner ends of his table, and his throne was not replaced but merely cushioned for the best ergonomic experience.

It’s too bad Crowley wasn’t much of a fan of video games because this looked like it’s been lifted off a gamer’s wishlist. 

“Uhh I know people play them?” Haj circled the desk with a slow whistle of appreciation. “But if I had gear like this, though, I’d make sure I’m familiar with them. I’d be familiar with them so hard.” The boy ended his appraisal by sitting on the gaming throne. “How about you, Newt?” Haj asked, the man in question standing still at the threshold, looking frightened of Crowley’s tech monstrosity.

“You do _not_ want me to be next to that thing. Technology and I don’t really get along,” Newt said.

“For crying out loud,” he ran a hand through his hair and with gritted teeth tried to rein in his anger. It’s not their fault they’re useless to him at the moment, but by god he wanted to scream in frustration because _he’s_ useless to him at the moment, too. 

With an intense concentration Aziraphale would be proud of, Crowley started the _reading_. The demon read about Bloodmoon, its lore, rules - basically anything and everything he could find out about the game he had consumed. His initial plan was to form a group with Newt and Haj and find this MadPotato person in-game. 

What he didn’t take into account was the utter benightedness of all three of them. He may know what the game was, but that didn’t necessarily mean he could play it. “It must be intuitive isn’t it, the dumbest of the dumb can easily play this thing,” he mumbled to himself. 

Frown lines formed around his eyes and got more acute with each failed solution that deigned to cross his mind. Haj and Newt stared back but Crowley was currently looking at them without seeing them. Just like all the other times he’s had to think of the ways to get what he wanted, the demon ignored his surroundings and stared into space while his mind sort of downloaded Universal information. In the creepy stillness, he’s imagined simulations of events if he chose Option A over B and the consequences of doing so, and this went on until he ended up, not with the actual answer, but one that seems to have more potential. Granted, ‘potential’ doesn’t mean ‘safest’ or ‘easiest’ or even ‘the best’. More often than not, a promising course of action signified a riskier, lengthier, wobblier experience. But he always did get what he wanted, so must be effective, right?

“Right, here’s what we’re going to do,” he began as his brain cells gradually put pressure on the breaks. “ _Y_ _ou_ are going to read up everything about this game. I can miracle a few more monitors, I’ll even print them out if I have to,” eyeing Newt shuddering at the thought of having more screens than he’s comfortable with. “But when I get in the game, I want you both to guide me there. We can’t lose any more time so you’ll just have to multitask.”

Crowley limbered up, stretching muscles he really couldn’t be bothered to use on a daily basis and will now see more action than it did since the olden days. Mid-squat, Haj stepped up to him and looked about to burst out laughing, “Hang on, muscle man, we need more context. I don’t know if I can handle this with Newt looking like a frightened duck on a frozen lake at every buffer,” leaning closer the boy added in a whisper, “Why didn’t we bring Anathema along?”

Face screwed into a grimace, he proffered an annoyed glare at Haj before turning to peer at Newt with glacial disregard. “She didn't want to go. And I’ve learnt early enough that if the witch insists she _feels_ like she _needs_ to be in another place, I shouldn’t argue. Plus, I--I just feel like this is something that we should follow-through.”

“And this lead, it’s the video game or a player?” Haj asked.

Crowley lunged, opening his chest as he looked straight ahead and then rested his hands gently over his knee. “A player. We’re going to look for them there.”

Releasing the stretch, Haj sneered and gave him two thumbs up, to which he countered with a hiss. 

Newt sat on the throne still keeping a weather eye on the desktop. “It’s not gonna bite, Newt. If it makes you feel better, you’re not going to use any of it,” Crowley said, thinking it a waste. “You can just scream at me through the monitor.” The demon snapped and the computer came to life and automatically loaded the game. For all his apprehensiveness, Newt sat up, mesmerised by the opening cinematic.

After the cutscene, Haj clicked on New Game and turned to Crowely. “So you’re going inside the game, and we’re supposed to help you win the levels, enter the forums, and direct you to wherever MadPotato is, correct?”

Skin rippling - a prelude to his corporation’s reshaping - reptilian scales appeared all over Crowley’s body. Increasing in size, his lean body became even more spry and lithe. Wings the colour of the midnight sky materialised from another plane and the last of his human features changed to something more ophidian. “Yes, you guys got it.”

Taking one final look, he gave them a wide, roguish grin, “So, you ready?” At their hesitant nods - as good a confirmation as he’ll ever get - he teleported himself inside the game.

***********************************************

“Aziraphale’s gone,” she intoned plaintively, but deep inside she’s boiling with anger. Not because the Principality escaped but because he’s destroyed her property. One of the first things she noticed was the gaping hole in her dimension that Aziraphale somehow made, then scanning the place, she saw a small depression right at the top of the barrier. _Something came in_. The captain’s instinct told her that Aziraphale’s demon friend must have a hand in this.

“Does it matter that he escaped?” Algaz asked from the prisoner’s bed. 

Araquiel did one final sweep of the room before letting her gaze fall on the lazing demon. “No, not really. At this point, he can’t really do anything anymore. And as far as Heaven is concerned - well, there was a breach of trust. You know as well as I that when Heaven distrusts, it’s almost always immutable.”

“Hmm,” the demon hummed. “How about the humans he took?”

With a snap, the angel moved them to the basement where all the other Transformed were kept. Algaz landed on a vacant bed and Araquiel on a chair right next to it. “He took the dumb ones,” she crossed her arms and observed the others in their pen. “You were planning to dispose of them, remember? It’s his problem now.”

The demon started to relax on the bed, putting his hands under his head and closing his eyes. _So much trust that I won’t stab him while he’s not looking_ , she thought. 

“Yeah. So, we’ll just push forward, then?” he asked.

Araquiel put up her feet on the bed just beside the demon’s legs, “We’re right on schedule. I don’t see why not.”

***********************************************

He can’t believe it - even Newt was frustrated at him.

“Crowley, for the last time, parry!” Newt’s shrill voice knocked around the demon’s skull. The only thing worse than if Haj and Newt had been controlling him in this game, was Haj and Newt bellowing orders at him. He didn’t realise that he’s still going to be bound by the rules of the game even if he’s already in it himself, so there were still abilities he couldn’t upgrade and weapons he couldn’t fortify on his own without going to that bloody abandoned mansion. That’s also one of the things he hated about being there - the codes and the pixels were all up close and making him lightheaded. The boys outside may be seeing a grand teleportation from a courtyard to a dimly lit vestibule, but what he’s seeing was that plus the lines and formulae that created those effects. Completely unexciting.

“I want to see _you_ do this and last up to my level, Newt, I bloody dare you!” he roared, hefting his heavy double-handed axe over the bipedal Rabid Boar attacking him. Sidestepping his move, the beast him him on his ribs forcing him to fall flat on his back. Without missing a beat, it pounced on him and slashed at his face twice before his vision blurred and blackened. The next thing he knew, Crowley’s standing in his office seeing two pairs of wide eyes looking at him like he’s just put milk before the cereal. Sporting the two huge gashes on his face, he gave Haj and Newt his brightest, most annoying grin. “I almost had ‘im there.”

It’s been like this for _six_ hours. He’d die in the game and reappear with the wounds he’s just had - burning head, punctured heart, stabbed feet, freakin’ mangled body after falling because he jumped at the wrong angle. And the sweetest, bestest part of it all really was _he needs to do it all over again!_

He dropped to the floor and stayed there, wiggling his fingers and toes to see if they’re still working. “I need a moment,” he said to no one in particular. They can roll their eyes and curl their lips all they want, but the cold floor was friend right now.

Choosing to ignore him, Haj and Newt turned back to one of the monitors the demon miracled so they can access the in-game forum. Crowley told them all about the shaky video of a creature in a church going around the forum, but a lot of people have started reposting it and turning it into memes that finding the original post was proving difficult. And so they continued the search. “Any luck with that?” Crowley asked.

“Well, we’re at page 157 of this thread. I have no idea if that’s close or not, but we’ll get there,” Haj sighed. “You shouldn’t worry about this, just focus on losing and dying in that game for countless more times. Really go for that expertise,” the boy added, to which Crowley countered by throwing his boot at him.

Newt handed him a glass of water and helped him sit up, “We can review your combos and inventory before you get back in, if you want?” he offered. That’s really his problem - Crowley needed to get it out of his head that he can do anything in the game just because. He turned himself into lines and codes that match those in the game, so he really should have known that he’ll be bound by its set rules. So reluctant as he may be, he nodded in resignation. 

Crowley and Newt decided to stay in the living room so the demon can put his feet up while they’re going through his abilities and items on hand while Haj was still busy scrolling through the forums. They stay like that for a while until they heard screaming from the office. As if on impulse, both men ran toward the office expecting Haj to be in trouble. However, instead of a crumpled boy writhing in pain that their brains supplied as they rushed in, they saw fists hanging in the air as though Haj just won his first smackdown wrestling match. “What the hell is going on with you?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“You,” Haj pointed at him, “Owe me _years_ of servitude.”

“No way,” Newt seemed to forget his aversion to technology, darting toward the screen Haj was looking at a while ago. “Wow, you really did find it.”

The boy screamed excitedly again, even bellowing an ‘I am you Master!’ to Crowley’s face. “Yes, I really did. The guy didn’t tag MadPotato, though. But at least we have a direct line to their team. We just need to make sure we can get through the levels fast enough because we’re _very_ far behind.”

Amused, relieved, and even downright excited, Crowley went through his ritual stretches and prepared to get back in the game, determined this time to reduce his death streak. “Alright, good job kid,” he finally told him. 

Crowley stood in front of the huge monitor and gathered enough power to make the transport. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “I’ll allow a _few minutes_ of servitude, a teensy weensy amount of time. You’re already yelling at me enough as it is.”

Haj just shrugged, obviously still vibrating with joy, “Eh, I’ll take what I can get.”


	12. Follow the scent.

Even as far as the Overlook, Gabriel heard the gentle notes of the singing Ophanims at the God Keep. If he allowed himself a second to get lost in it he can begin to attune to their frequency, feel the vibration in his chest, and hear the words in their divine language.

Except that today, an important decision was to be made and it will require all his focus, willpower, and patience, to get these angels to come to a conclusion. To keep it humdrum for now as not to cause panic, the Angel of Heralds called a small meeting with a few high-level angels with on-going work and interest on Earth. Coming from all directions, he saw them earlier flying in and transforming from their true forms to their human corporations as they stepped inside the Overlook’s office building. Now they’re all gathered in the spacious and stark white conference hall, floor-to-ceiling windows giving them unhindered views of the Celestial City.

In attendance were Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon - overseers of all activities on Earth apart from him. Then, chosen randomly and completing the ensemble were Leliel, Angel of the Night; Armaros, Angel of Undoing; Eistibus, Angel of Divination; Zaqiel, Angel of Purity; and Baraquiel, Angel of Lightning. 

Sitting martial stiff directly across from him on the wide, circular table was Araquiel whose intense gaze was firmly on Michael as she recounted what she saw on Earth. 

There’s very little that can perturb the Angel of Deliverance and the Angel of the Flame. Even so, everyone in the room, rapt in attention as Michael and Uriel described what they saw happening in a church on Earth, was slowly realising that they’re frightened.

Throwing a quick glance to the angel beside him, Raziel, present only as a favour, was scanning the room with careful scrutiny.

“The priest already looked half dead when we got to his room. He was restrained because of the convulsions, but he was being treated as carefully as any relic the humans thought to be sacred,” Michael said. She continued to paint the picture for them - harrowing screams and painful laboured breaths as the priest’s skin peeled away to reveal a more wrinkled or swollen surface, how they stood there aghast as the other humans exclaim miraculous wonder and began chanting praises to God, and more chilling was what this transforming priest produced.

“It was hellfire, we’re sure of it,” Uriel said.

For a moment, the distant music outside played clear as a heavy hush fell in the room. Angels present in the meeting who don’t necessarily need to make constant contact with the Physical Realm to influence it look to be disturbed but in a more disconnected way. However, the overseer Archangels and Raziel, were in obvious fear.

“Demons,” Araquiel broke the silence.

The Powers stood up and started slowly circling them, looking at all the angels one by one. “I have reported my suspicions, if you remember, Gabriel.”

Gabriel also stood to level her with a stare, “Yes, I do remember. It was your reports that prompted me to send Michael and Uriel to scout, and why we’re meeting here, now.”

Araquiel clapped her hands together and said in odd excitement, “Well, this confirms it, right? The demons are roaming on Earth far beyond the agreed parameters. And after hearing Michael and Uriel’s account, it seems that they’re involving humans in their diabolical plans.”

Leliel, whose midnight dark skin contrasted the wispy blue-grey hair that looked to be perpetually caught in the wind, is playing with starlight the whole time, extinguished it and turned to the Captain. “What are you saying, Araquiel? That they mean to harm humanity?”

She approached Leliel and placed her hands on the angel’s shoulders, “Yes and no. Yes, what they’re doing is obviously harming the humans, but I mean something else...Tell me, what do you think they will get from transforming them? From giving them abilities that mean to harm _us_?”

Her thick, golden head of hair with a build that inspired the image of the Norse God, Baraquiel gave a harsh, derisive laugh. “What, you think they want to turn the humans against us? Even with abilities, none of them can match up to any of us, not even to Raziel here with their feathered pen.” The slight turn of the head told Gabriel that the Angel of Mysteries didn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Think of the Fall! Think of what the demons _swore_ they would do to hurt our Mother,” Araquiel said passionately. 

Sandalphon leaned on the table, chin resting on his hands, “I see, Captain. You think they’re turning humans into demons.”

She pointed at him, “Exactly, Sandalphon! It’s not that complicated to see, they’ve been at this campaign since they’ve fallen. But not only that,” she walked to her empty chair, eyes wild with fire. It’s not enough to corrupt God’s ultimate design, but it seems to me that they also intend to use them as weapons, against us, against Her. The demons are doing this,” she declared with conviction. “And our choice to make the first move now isn’t just so we can get ahead of them, but an act of protection for humanity.”

“Protection?” Eistibus said indignant. Instead of saffron robes, he donned ones the colour of the evening sky that reached the floor, and his close-shaven head is ringed with intricate patterns, perhaps symbols of his own kind of divination. “If I’m reading this right, this is a call to arms. Is that it? You’re telling us that Heaven should prepare for battle against demons _and_ humans. It’s bad enough that Gabriel made the wrong call not too long ago, but this...this sounds ludicrous.”

Raziel cleared his throat. They were one of the few angels who have chosen a more aged corporation - dreads of a salt and pepper colour, an alluring chestnut brown skin that radiated as much warmth as the angel’s true form. “And all this is highly presumptive. We’re assuming that this human has turned into a demon and not simply transformed into something less threatening, like a diseased creature. The ability may have just been an unfortunate result of that, which means we shouldn’t be preparing for any form of battle but of aid, angel,” he said fixing Araquiel with a pointed glare.

The Powers’ hands were now balled into tight fists. “What’s that saying, Raziel? If it quacks like a duck and walks like a ducks, then it _is_ a duck.”

Leliel perked up, “Who’s a duck?”

All heads turned to Leliel, who didn’t make herself small because of embarrassment, but because she was none too pleased they didn’t get she’s just teasing.

“I agree with Raziel,” Michael quickly said. “As much as what we witnessed was disturbing, we simply can’t call for War. We’ll be accusing Hell, and if we’re wrong, the consequences will be much worse than when Armageddon was called off.”

“Not to mention, we’ve only just seen _one_ human. If there are more, an investigation must take place first to confirm before we make any move,” Uriel added.

Gabriel watched the Captain closely as this unfolded and saw signs of careful restraint. If he were in her shoes, he thought it wouldn't do to explode in a room full of angels who weare either disappointed the last war didn’t happen or were slightly unaffected. He understood this reticence. And he understood its underlying danger.

“Are we going to wait for their numbers to increase, then?” Zaqiel said - resting their long legs on the table, she schooled her androgynous features into tight wrinkled worry even when her tone sounded neutral. “They are corrupting Her children and building an army to fight against Her stewards. Are we supposed to ‘go through the proper channels’ and ignore the urgency of the situation?” Araquiel nodded to the angel, thanking him for his support. 

Gabriel remained standing over the gathered council. “That’s also a dangerous assumption, Zaqiel. We’re not sure if it’s an army they plan to create. Let’s consider: If they _are_ turning them into demonic weapons against us, it’d be difficult to reach army level numbers, not to mention, the logistics of training them. I’m sure Heaven’s Eye _will_ notice if a lot of the humans just suddenly disappeared.”

A few murmurs of agreement.

“I have to be honest, I’m leaning towards Araquiel here,” Armaros said. The angel’s choice of a young adult corporation, and contrasting their suits and robes with colourful streetwear, was designed cleverly to belie his power potential. “I know this is all conjecture from just one account. But one ugly monstrosity who possesses an ability that can mean death for us is too many, Gabriel.” 

“And demonic transformation aside, remember that humans have freewill. Imagine if the ugly creatures multiply and realise the potential of their abilities and use that to do more harm to their kin. I mean, right now it’s not looking good for them. And _that’s_ without any supernatural assistance,” Baraquiel added.

Raziel surprised Gabriel by standing up and sweeping a disappointed gaze. “Following your line of logic, Baraquiel, that also means that they are capable of doing good.”

Another peek at Araquiel saw the Captain hiding a satisfied smirk. _It doesn’t matter what we decide to do. She’s got what she wanted somehow._

A small star floated in the middle of the room and burst, showering them with starlight. “I’ve seen some ugly people before, and they turn out to be good,” Leliel joked to pierce through their awkward bubble. “Raziel is right, though - just because they’re transformed doesn’t mean they’re demons. And they might need our help.”

“Alright, this is my proposal,” Gabriel finally sat down and firmly addressed the council. “Commander Michael, because of the possible threats enumerated here, you will lead the investigation. Whatever you need, you have full access to, but I want reports submitted every day.”

He let them digest his words before prompting them to respond. “Does anyone disagree?”

A beat, each one turning to the angel beside them perhaps to wordlessly communicate what they think.

“No, that sounds like a good plan, Archangel,” came Araquiel’s surprising answer, to which the whole room seconded. 

“This should be done swiftly and quietly. I’d appreciate your silence on the matter,”Gabriel said. “If there’s nothing else, this meeting is adjourned. Thank you very much for attending.”

Promptly leaving the room, he watched from the window as each one changed back to their true forms to fly off to their respective posts. Gabriel spotted Araquiel staring back at him before immediately turning away to fly back to the Physical Realm.

Raziel approached to stand beside him on the window. “Whatever transpired here, Gabriel,” they turned to fully face him. “It worries me.”

Listening closely, he could just make out the choral notes to the Ophanim's Gloria. _Sweet, warm, and comforting._

“Yes,” clearing his mind, Gabriel closed his eyes and called for the melody to flood his being. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m very scared now, Raziel.”

***********************************************

 _If you find yourself in times of trouble, specifically, when you’re about to sneak into a church to take illegal footage of God’s ordained servants on Earth, should you ask yourself what Jesus would do and remember he totally hated it when priests were living better than the common man so you can feel better about yourself?_ , Reeva’s nervous internal rambling went.

Wreathed in night-coloured clothes and deep midnight hoodies, she and Charlie huddled in the shadow with their backs flat against the cold stone of the church. On their left was an open window from which they can hear the slow, rusted tunes of an organ that almost sounded as rheumatic as the hands that were most likely playing them.

At night, its garden looked as though midnight creatures from all over the city convened in its frigid, tenebrific air. Like anytime a winged beast not unlike the Maneater Crow of her game will come swooping in to strike them both with its sharp talons. Beside her, Charlie adjusted the stretch fabric hugging his legs and grudgingly clutched himself tight through the thick material of the hoodie. “I said channel the stealth and confidence of a cat, not _dress_ like a cat,” she murmured at him.

“Ree, I just want you to know that me and my elastic lycra suit will leave your jean-chafing ass if we get caught,” came his low colourless reply.

Resigned, she just rolled her eyes. Just as Reeva expected, it was Charlie who suggested they do this. But if she’s going to be completely honest with herself, she just wanted someone else to say what she was already planning to do so that the accountability was shared. That way, there’ll be less pointing fingers when this goes pear-shaped, and more like a fun anecdote to tell someone else’s grandkids someday.

Beneath the moonlight, she could just about make out the church’s back door where she saw the humanoid creature. Grainy video aside, she _did_ see it standing there, beckoning the people around it with such a palpable air of authority - she’d only ever seen that self-assured bravado in men who wear uniform for the illusion of power it promises, so more than just a startling experience, it also, deep inside, made her want to puke. 

Both ducked under the windowsill to tiptoe across the garden. “Ree,” Charlie poked at her shoulder as they moved towards the closed door. “I brought some items we might need. Do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Uh, in theory? I think I can do it,” she said remembering how fast she was able to upgrade Pick-Locking on Skyrim. 

Charlie let out a frankly huge offending exhale, “You know what - I’ll do it. I’d rather not get caught before doing the actual crime.” 

Sweeping past her, he hunched at the level of the doorknob and got to work. A word about Charlie and the lengths he’ll go through for a friend: The moment they agreed to a time and date, one of the first things he did was gather what he calls the Budget Ocean’s Eleven Goodies. Reeva didn’t think beyond charging her phone, tablet, and power bank. But Charlie came to her apartment with the gloves they’re wearing, the pins for picking locks, the mace just in case they make contact, and all the other items she was too in awe to really take notice. And he showed these to her without flourish, like it was no big deal he was aiding in this ridiculous fart of a heist.

Sometimes, Reeva thinks she takes for granted how much love she gets from her friend. She’s too zoomed out most of the time, desperately trying to fill the huge holes in herself that she sweeps over the small ones that have already been welded shut by Charlie. 

So she watched proud as they both hear that hushed clink of the lock opening under Charlie’s careful picking. Slowly turning the knob, they entered the church silent as a lycra’ed catwoman.

Ahead of them was what looked like a small storage room, with another door at the other side that was slightly ajar. Crossing the rows of boxes and sacks that smell a mix of frankincense and dust, Charlie carefully pushed the door wider to reveal the sacristy, the stares of stained glass saints peered over them as they walked in. Ambling further into the room with footsteps light as a feather, they could hear a reverberant voice presumably coming from the main chapel. A priest, perhaps, talking to the congregation - but at this time of night?

“There’s two doors. That one,” Reeva pointed at the one on the far right, “I think leads to the private quarters.” She moved precariously to the left most side of the sacristy and pressed an ear to the door. Reeva motioned for Charlie to come near, and mouthed, “The chapel.” 

Both paused to listen. They couldn’t make out what’s being said, but the voice continued to oscillate with equally changing intensity. As they’re listening, Reeva’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the room when she noticed a slant of light on the floor in the middle of the room, gaze following where it’s streaming from to see a small rectangular that she assumed was meant for peeking through. “Hey, let’s watch through there,” she whispered, already slightly dragging Charlie toward it. 

Reeva could just about reach the glassless window on tippy toes. Squinting, she could see the back of the priest standing on the lectern on their left, the altar at the centre, and the looming, dimly lit nave beyond it. They still can’t make out what’s being said, but certain words would drift towards their little hole. _Faith. Conviction. Chosen. Evolve._

Charlie interrupted her focus by poking at her arm, forcing her to turn to him. The feeble glow helped her see that he’s miming something, but it takes a while to figure out what he’s trying to say. _Get the phone_. Swinging her small rucksack in front of her, she ruffled as quietly as she can for her mobile. Reeva handed it over to Charlie who had a full head over her and will definitely not have a cramp if he’s the one to record it. 

Settling on the best angle to get a good view, Charlie and Reeva resumed their watch. 

From where they were, she could make out the sparse audience sitting on the pews unmoving. Other priests and ministers who looked to be falling deeper into a trance with each word being uttered by the priest - who they have now identified as the curate, Father Michael. 

Father Michael led them to what sounded like a responsorial chant. “As one flock, we stand and say, ‘To you, O Lord, I lift body and soul. And in Your love, have transformed me.’” Deep, resonant, and in a hair-raising chorus, the congregation repeated loud, “TO YOU, O LORD, I LIFT BODY AND SOUL. AND IN YOUR LOVE, HAVE TRANSFORMED ME.”

In concert, everyone sat down, and Father Michael made his way back to the apse. But he didn’t sit on the middle chair as expected of a presiding priest, but on the one on its right. And it completely startled them both when someone stood from the primary seat. 

White soutane flowing freely with each movement, there was no denying that this figure who stood up inches below their window was the young parish priest, Father Thomas. But something wasn’t quite right. He let out a deep, guttural sound and shook his head like an animal with a wet pelt, heavy galumphing steps made him look like he was plodding rather than walking to the altar. Upon reaching it, the light overhead shone brightly on him. Charlie almost squeaked in shock as Reeva was paralysed with it. _That’s the creature. That’s what I saw_. 

She could see Charlie adjusting the focus and zooming in without losing quality and angle. The creature-priest looked over the congregation, and in an odd euphonious but booming voice, bellowed, “ **My brothers, I am proof that God rewards unwavering faith and dedication. I could not remember a moment when my mind and heart has shied away from the heat of God’s love, and now I stand, here, in front of you,** **_transformed_ ** **by that love.”**

The collective susurrus of the audience became a spine-tingling sound of assent, until everyone was loudly proclaiming the responsorial again. Father Thomas raised his hands to silence the crowd. **“And now, brothers, bare witness.”**

A distinct sizzling sound could be heard even from the sacristy. Reeva and Charlie started wiping at their brow as the temperature very perceptibly increased. Armpits sweating through their shirts was going to be the least of their problems, she mused. And to confirm her suspicion, Reeva watched as the priest flared out fire from his raised hands. **“BARE WITNESS AND SEE WHAT DEVOTION WILL BRING YOU,”** Father Thomas roared as the congregation chanted yet again.

Reeva’s mind was trying to find a foothold against the onslaught of revelations. It settled on focusing on Father Thomas himself, narrowing her eyes to block a bit of the fire’s light. And that’s when she saw his colour emanations - a white base layer with an intense violet. _Just like the guy who can control the plants, except his has red in it. Which means…_

Charlie’s grasp of the phone loosened. He scrambled for it as it’s falling, but he failed to catch it. The phone dropped with a loud thud and the chapel suddenly fell quiet.

“Show yourself, whoever you are,” Father Michael commanded as he stood from his post. “Don’t you know that you’re interrupting a holy ceremony?” 

They could hear ruffling on the other side of the sacristy, presumably Father Michael standing up and about to walk behind the apse. Without missing a beat, Charlie grabbed the phone, pulled her by the arm, and ran through the doors that they came through. Once they were at the garden, both of them booked it without even a glance back. 

“You were right,” Reeva said through laboured breathing. “The catsuit looks _much_ easier to run in.”

***********************************************

The now ubiquitous moaning as a creature dies in this game was music to his pixelated reptilian eardrums. Its body falls dramatically on the ground ready for looting thick pelt, meat, and a couple of coins - why these beasts have need for money, they still haven’t figured out, it’s just one of those game logic things they needed to accept, apparently.

Crowley had been trying to catch up with MadPotato’s team for more than 12 hours now. According to Haj, they only need one more level-up before they can open the location where they’re most likely to be on the map. 

Considering he and Aziraphale dedicated 11 years on Warlock for nothing, playing a game for _hours_ that may or may not result in nothing felt comparatively tedious. Perhaps it’s because it didn’t require this much effort; the most he physically exerted himself was chasing Warlock around to get him to eat. Plus, they weren’t exactly moving blind, there was a clear goal. However useless those 11 years were - especially since the end of the world _was_ prevented - well, it’s the thought that counts, right? 

But these vagaries, this dangerous groping in the dark was an inconvenience he’d gladly wish on the worst of his enemies.

“There’s a boss battle up ahead. I suggest you upgrade your gear first before moving forward. The glowing statue should be there at the castle entrance,” Newt’s voice boomed in the game. The man was still a hair’s breadth away from a panic attack whenever he goes near Crowley’s gaming setup, but when it came to thinking about their next moves, he’s quite reliable. Haj would find helpful tips on the forums, and Newt brings it all together for Crowley. _He’s fine just as long as he’s not executing the plans,_ the demon once thought, when they were discussing how best to defeat a boss fight that would require dodging blades raining down and balls of fire coming at him.

From a distance, he could see the pulsating blue light the glowing statue emits and ran toward it. The faster he finished the more menial parts of the game, the quicker it was to get to the boss fights. Crowley made quick work of fortifying his weapon and outfitting himself with a new armour that will make him more agile and has a high defence to match the upgraded attack capability of his axe. “You have a lot of experience points to work with, so I think you can spend them liberally on your Vitality, Endurance, and Strength. Load on the usual potions and items we use, then you’re good to go,” Haj instructed.

Today, the only thing standing between him and this MadPotato person was the boss he’s about to fight. 

He entered the castle and proceeded with scouring the place. The creature, called St. Executioner, will be in the throne room. From the screenshots they saw, it’s gigantic mass was still dwarfed by the massive hall, which means there will also be more room for Crowley to move. It only took half an hour for him to complete his circuit around the circle, before finally getting to the cutscene.

St. Executioner was a beast summoned by the court sorcerer to aid them in the war. The creature had a huge bulbous head and numerous, yellowed eyes. On its face were tentacles that go taut and stiff when it’s about to attack at close quarters, and from which the poison gets spewed. Supporting gigantic and thick arms with hands that look like mallets, was a slimy blob of a body. It’s not for lack of experience as to why this beast turned against its summoners, but that it has operated on its own terms right from the beginning and had manipulated the situation to get what it wanted - a powerful amulet that the queen never takes off.

Blackout. The loading wheel appeared and started the countdown before the fight begins.

88%

92%

96%

98%

100%

Crowley found himself standing at a helpful distance from the beast who was still busy roaring. _Why do they think that’s necessary at all?_ he mused. He sprinted to its side and started hacking - this was his favourite part, when he’s loosed on an enemy and attacked thoughtlessly before he needed to jump away. In fact, he thinks it’s almost muscle memory now, the way his body just _knows_ where to attack, when to parry, and what special ability to activate. Like if his mind was filled with noise, these moments were when it became more of a symphony. And so he listened to every note and changed in tune and followed the melody where it led him.

Dodging away from a poison shoot, he rolled toward St. Executioner and readied his axe. Holding it aloft as he sprinted and jumped up - the blade moved in a beautiful arc and landed square on the creature’s head, and then its life bar finally got depleted.

As automatic to him now as causing mild inconvenience to humans, he picked up items the creature dropped and did one last circuit of the hall, before making his way to the back of the castle, where a ruined wall revealed itself, and that led to the new location on the map.

Bloodmoon’s interactive nature meant that you’ll more or less bump into other players, but mostly in a place that functions as commercial spaces like trading markets, which all players almost always end up in since it’s one of the first places you visit upon entering a new location in the map. Here, you can trade items, join teams that were currently within the location, or start conversations with each other. 

Crowley had never shown an interest at all since it’ll only eat up valuable time, but right now, he squinted at the teams present in Carmadivar and began his search for MadPotato. 

***********************************************

The light filtered through the curtains in hot streams through the window. There were no chirping birds, no artificial whistling wind - instead the comforting sounds of London traffic and the rush of people going about their day knocked on his panes, waiting to be invited into his room. 

Aziraphale had been staring at the bare ceiling of his bedroom for almost an hour now, allowing himself to drown and be acquainted with these familiar sensations again. It’s funny how much one can ignore when they’re not bound by any known constraints. When the dusts of Time are nothing but specks that fall in the hourglass that perennially overturns, and when everything and everyone around you are fleeting encounters - a few leaving fading fingerprints on your mind, while others become spectres in your memory. 

But today, at least just in the first moments of the morning, before his mind started racing and his body begged to move, the Principality basked in every movement of Earth and Man, feeling the shift in waves of energy around him, to lie there and just be.

He closed his eyes and breathed in, his stomach expanding with the inhale. Then a slow hiss as he exhales air out of his mouth. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Fingers and toes felt a static trickle that spreads throughout his body and reached his crown.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe i-- _pancakes?_ As if on cue, his body converted air into hungry rumbling, and who was he to ignore _this_ sensation? “Oh, breakfast,” a yearning sigh as he forced himself to get off the bed. 

Still clad in his nightgown, Aziraphale made his way down to the kitchenette off the side of his bookshop. He got there just in time to see Anathema flip a hot pancake from pan to plate. “Good morning!” she exclaimed. “Go on, take a seat, I’ll be done in a minute.”

Wrist chains jingling with each movement, Aziraphale went to the small dining table. He watched as Anathema prepared two piles of pancakes and drizzled maple syrup generously. From inside the fridge, Anathema pulled out a small pack of strawberries and proceeded to wash and cut them to put liberally on their plates. On the counter next to her, the angel could see two steaming cups that smelt of chocolate - Anathema picked these and the utensils up and brought them to the table first before getting their plates. 

“I don’t know how you like your pancakes or what you put in your hot chocolate,” she said a little shyly. “I hope this is okay.” 

Reaching out to pat her hand, the angel smiled gratefully and said, “This is more than okay, my dear. It’s perfect. Thank you for this.”

Cutting into his pancakes, he speared three layers with a strawberry sitting on top. Having not eaten anything since his capture, that first bite could’ve been the best tasting food he’s ever had. However, instead of the usual savouring sounds when he eats, a quiet whimper was what he let out. Putting down his fork, Aziraphale felt very overwhelmed, and sitting there with a virtual stranger who showed nothing but kindness to him, something he expected from one of his kin, he broke down. Almost immediately, Anathema moved her chair beside him and hugged him to her chest as he shed fretful tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said in between sobs that were slowly winding down to tremulous sniffles. “I never meant for that to happen. It’s not the cooking, I promise,” he lightly teased as his breath evened out. 

“Aziraphale, you were held captive and tortured for months in another dimension,” she continued to rub circles on his back. “Don’t apologise for what you’re feeling. You shouldn’t even bottle them up. If you want to cry, I’ll make sure there’s tea after. If you want to be angry, we’ll throw some of your plates on the wall in an alley somewhere,” she added, playfully bumping her shoulder to his.

He chuckled, “Maybe next time, my dear. However, I _am_ planning on expending energy today, and I’d be even more grateful if you can assist me.”

Anathema stood and moved back to her side of the table, “Then we better eat up so we can start!”

After the plates had been washed and put away, they decided to go to the backroom. But on the way, he saw the Transformed humans he accidentally brought with him still standing at the bookshop’s foyer. “Children, I’m sorry, I completely forgot about you. You must be hungry!” Fishing out what’s left of the pancakes and the strawberries, Aziraphale ordered them to sit on the table and eat. With that done, he called for Anathema and they finally settled on the couch. 

Looking around, everything seemed to be in place and generally untouched, except the streaks of dry blood on the wall were still there. 

“Crowley says he wanted to know why there’s human blood mixed in with angelic and demonic essences on those blood tracks. So, he decided not to miracle it away,” Anathema explained, noticing where the angel was looking. 

“Right, well, I think the humans in the kitchen might help us answer that. But before we get to them, we need to do a little research.”

Anathema listened closely as the angel detailed what Araquiel and Algaz have revealed to him and the transformation he’s seen during his capture. “Both seemed to have a different end-goal, but what worries me is the nonchalant use of humans as test subjects, and ultimately as bait just to instigate this needless war. This doesn’t look like a simple transformation, it’s like something within them is being sullied somehow. That’s what we need to find out - there must be something in the books that can help us out.”

They talked about subject matters and key words to look for to help narrow down the options. With a whole list of topics to work with, Aziraphale and Anathema split up to begin their search. 

Putting the urgency aside for a little while, the angel allowed his fingers to run through the books he passed by in the claustrophobic spaces between his shelves. His captors thought it necessary to call out Aziraphale’s penchant for human pleasures - calling him the Angel of Small Joys as if he should take offense for it. Now, surrounded by products of human creativity and one of the primary drivers for his decision to stave off Armageddon, he couldn’t be happier with that title. Reigning himself in again, making certain nothing unwanted will be dredged up, at least for the next couple of hours, he gave singular focus to the task at hand.

The angel started with his books on theurgy, analysing every line in each ritual magic pertaining to transformation and shapeshifting. After diligently jotting down concepts that seemed to be relevant, he shifted to his tomes on transfiguration, taking great care in illustrating some of the creatures that look similar to the humans still waiting for his next command in the kitchen. 

A surge of enthusiasm took over him, his old self coming back in huge bursts and reminding him how much he loved doing this. For every change in topic - from potion making, enchantment, to manipulation magic - felt like his cramped muscles were finally loose and mobile.

As is typical of him, he got lost in the work and was startled out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. Standing over him at his desk was Anathema. “Any luck finding anything?”

Aziraphale lifted his hand to take off his glasses and rubbed his straining eyes, “Well, I’ve written down what I _think_ may be useful. But nothing significant as of yet. You?”

“Same,” the witch replied. “Other than the physical transformation, what else have you observed? You said that they considered the first attempts to be failures because they didn’t have acceptable intelligence. But you saw the ones that do, right?

Head resting on his hand, Aziraphale’s mind played in vivid detail the day they showed him the transformation. How the Transformed humans towered over his kneeling form, the high cognition displayed by the Transformed they got right, and the physical prowess these ones he brought with him has shown. 

Searching through the rolodex of references his thoughts had started rifling through, he used these observations to guide him. 

One can imagine several versions of Aziraphale that live in the library of his mind, running around looking for the information Physical Realm Aziraphale needed. At present, each of his mental versions were working frantically to find what he’s looking for, until one of them brandished a book that may contain helpful details.

In the history of Man, there’s only ever been one moment in which they have shown all of these characteristics. The Book of Enoch tells the story of the fall of The Watchers - angels who were meant to guide and mediate human progress. It’s common belief that they fell because they taught Man about magic and technology, but this wasn’t exactly the case. 

An unfortunate product of having powerful beings roaming around the land was that humans will almost always assume that they’re some sort of god. It would’ve been easy for The Watchers to stop and clarify that they, too, were servants of God. But they tasted what absolute power could bring and encouraged humanity’s worship of them. Even worse was how they took advantage of the power dynamics, which resulted in the birth of the Nephilims.

Described to be Giants of Men, the Nephilims were of angel and human descent. True, some of them _were_ mountainous men that can crush and smash as they please. However, there were also the little known Nephilims who have retained their human form, but have particular mannerisms and have physical marks of their origin. Apart from the incredible strength their taller brothers and sisters possessed, they have also developed supernatural abilities and intellectual power. 

“Ah, Aziraphale?” Anathema asked. 

Aziraphale startled again - he must’ve been idle for quite some time while his brain was running as fast as Crowley drives. Eyes wrinkling as he smiled, he looked up to Anathema’s inquiring look and laughed. “I think I know where we can start.”

***********************************************

He really thought that the worst was done when he finally found what he was looking for. He didn’t actually need to find the team in the game, he just needed to find a viable line of communication. The plan was to get him inside the inbox so that he can transport himself to where MadPotato was. What they didn’t take into account was the length of time it takes for this MadPotato person to look at their inbox, or if they're even going to play today at all.

And now Crowley was stuck as a message in their in-game pillar box, waiting to be opened for 3 hours and running.

Unlike phones, which has access to the communication highway through wires connecting everyone in the country, an in-game inbox looks and _feels_ like the void’s fart. It’s not as empty and definitely doesn’t give you an existential crisis - but what it does was test your patience and irritate you with the way it just needles at your last thread of control before you’re just about ready to explode. Plus, there’s an odd gust of wind that _does_ smell like a fart.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The demon must have dozed off because the next thing he knew he’s being sucked towards the most blinding light, every pixelated molecule being deconstructed and reconstructed on the other side of the screen. He came to as he heard a shrilling scream coming from who he assumed to be the gamer he was looking for.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “No, don’t be afraid! I promise I’m not here to harm you,” he reassured her, but that just made her scream even louder. _Oh god, how did Gabriel deal with this before_. Crowley continued to spew variations on Be Not Afraid and didn’t notice her swing her bag around to reach for mace. 

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” MadPotato screamed as she sprayed on his eyes unstintingly, making him think that the blasted pepper spray must be bottomless. 

“ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” he replied with his own disgruntled scream. 

It wasn’t until the bottle finally ran out of juice that Crowley remembered that he is (1) a demon who (2) was now out of the game and (3) has full access to his powers. “That’s it!” he yelled as he snapped the burn away and miracled glasses on his eyes. 

“Look, here,” still adjusting to the change in landscape, he willed his vertigo to get out of the way if he knew what’s good for it. “Are you MadPotato?” he said, eyes squinting to let as little light as possible. He could see MadPotato’s frilly curls framing her shocked face.

“Y-yes,” she stuttered.

“I’ll stand by the door and you can,” the demon looked around the apartment and spotted a couch at the far end, “You can sit there and listen to me. Is that okay?”

MadPotato, who still looked like she’s about to scream again, quickly turned away and practically ran toward the couch.

Crowley almost slamned a hand on the table on his left for support as he fought for balance. “Right, if it helps, I refilled your pepper spray,” he said, walking toward the door. “I saw your video. That’s what I’m here for.” Feeling his body going heavier by the minute, he flattened his back on the wooden door and slides down to the floor where he reclined. The position was instantly doing wonders for his corporation - if he were human, this would be when all his joints would comfortably pop. 

No answer came, so he continued. “You recorded a video of a human exhibiting powers and then of a creature within church grounds, correct?” he asked.

MadPotato, who refused to let go of the spray - which is fair - only nodded. 

The demon eyed her and considered how he can approach this without spooking her out too much. A stranger just appeared from her computer, it’s a wonder she’s still even here. _Paralysed with shock, probably._

Taking a page from Aziraphale's book, Crowley sat up. “I’m sorry, where are my manners. My name is Anthony J. Crowley. I’m a demon who has lived on Earth from the time of Eden. And you are?”

Obviously still trembling, he watched as she put down her rucksack, hands still clutching tight on the spray. “Reeva,” she answered curtly.

Taking a moment to gather himself, he carefully pushed himself up off the floor and took great care in showing that he wasn’t a threat. “Reeva. I think I may need your help. My friend…” he faltered. He hasn’t connected with Aziraphale for almost a week now, promising the angel that he’ll get a move on with investigating. “A friend of mine has been captured. But in captivity he learnt that something dangerous is happening to the humans. And I think that is what you saw.”

The girl, Reeva, finally moved. She advanced carefully. “I...don’t know what’s happening anymore. But - but something about this interaction feels right.” She picked up her bag again and fished for a phone and a tablet. Hesitant but resigned, she signaled for him to come close. 

“I think you need to see this,” Reeva played the footage from her stint at the church and heard the rare sound of a demon’s disturbed gasp.


End file.
